W.  J.  DAWS  ON 


GIFT  OF 
:iisabeth  Whitney  Put  nan 


/ 


A  PROPHET  IN  BABYLON 


The  Makers  of  Modern  English 

By  W.  J.  DAWSON 

Three  Vols,  Each,  Gilt  Top,  net  $t.jo 
Half  Leather,  Boxed,  $er  Set,  net  $6.00 

"Mr.  Dawson  knows  his  subject  thor- 
oughly, having  been  an  omnivorous  reader 
and  possessing  a  memory  as  retentive  as 
Macaulay's.  His  style  is  a  perpetual 
delight  for  clearness,  variety,  force  and 
rhythm." — Evening  Sun. 

1.  The  Makers  of  English  Fiction 

"  In  every  way,  in  literary  criticism  as  well 
as  a  book  of  information,  it  is  a  splendid  work 
of  insight,  sympathy  and  common  sense." — 
Boston  Times. 

2.  The  Makers  of  English  Prose 

"Mr.  Dawson  is  exceptionally  equipped, 
having  insight,  sympathy,  and  knowledge,  and 
a  style  at  once  clear,  distinctive  and  agreeable. 
He  traverses  practically  the  whole  realm  of 
English  prose  from  Johnson  to  Ruskin  and 
Newman." — Literary  Digest. 

3.  The  Makers  of  English  Poetry 

"  Reveals  the  author  at  his  best,  disclosing 
not  only  his  acquisitions  in  English  literature 
but  his  sympathy  with  all  that  is  pure  and 
lovely."—  The  Interior. 

"  The  general  reader  will  find  a  reve- 
lation in  the  unerring  analysis  of  charac- 
ter, the  student  a  fund  of  information, 
giving  a  general  view  of  English  literature. 
Everyone  will  find  his  taste  elevated,  his 
discernment  more  exact,  his  store  of 
knowledge  increased. "-N.  Y.  Commercial. 


A  Prophet  in  Babylon 


A  STORT  OF  SOCIAL  SERVICE 


BY 


W.    J.    DAWSON 

Author  of  "  Makers  of  Modern  English,"  "  Empire  of  Love?  etc. 


NEW  YORK        CHICAGO        TORONTO 

Fleming  H.   Revell  Company 

LONDON         AND          EDINBURGH 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 


+  Fifth  Avenue 
Chicago :  80  Wabash  Avenue 
Toronto  :  25  Richmond  St.,  W. 
London  :  21  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh :  100  Princes  Street 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  DEACONS'  MEETING        ...  9 

II.  A  SELLER  OF  RHETORIC          ...  20 

III.  PARADISE  LOST 32 

IV.  STORM  SIGNALS 44 

V.  DR.  JORDAN 56 

VI.  A  DISCUSSION 71 

VII.  THE  GHOSTLY  DAWN      ....  85 

VIII.  A  RETIRED  PROPHET       ....  101 

IX.  THE  UNDERWORLD          .        .        .        .118 

X.  THE  DISSIMULATION  OF  MARGARET       .  134 

XI.  RENUNCIATION 151 

XII.  FAREWELL  THE  OLD       .        .        .        .168 

XIII.  AN  INTERVIEW 185 

XIV.  THE  HOUSE  OF  JOY        .        .        .        .  joi 
XV.  THE  VISION 219 

XVI.  THE  CROSS  OF  STARS      .        .        .        .  237 

XVII.  OLIVIA'S  CHOICE 252 

7 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XVIII.  THE  YOUNG  APOSTLES  . 

XIX.  BUTLER'S  INQUISITION    . 

XX.  THE  POOL  AND  THE  RIVER 

XXI.  HOME  AT  LAST 

XXII.  A  TRAGEDY    .... 

XXIII.  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW 

XXIV.  PERFECT  LOVE 


PAGE 
268 

283 
299 
315 

33* 
348 
360 


A  PROPHET  IN  BABYLON 


THE    DEACONS'    MEETING 

THE  meeting  of  the  deacons  of  the  Mayfield 
Avenue  Union  Church  was  nearly  over, 
and  it  had  not  been  a  pleasant  meeting. 
Nothing  had  been  said  that  could  be  called  positively 
offensive  to  the  minister,  the  Rev.  John  Gaunt,  but 
a  good  deal  had  been  implied.  John  Gaunt  had  been 
minister  of  the  church  for  nearly  seven  years.  He 
had  come  to  it  on  an  enthusiastic  call  when  its  pres- 
tige had  somewhat  declined,  and  the  force  of  his  per- 
sonality and  preaching  genius  had  raised  it,  within 
two  years,  to  a  position  of  commanding  influence. 
In  the  fourth  year  of  his  ministry  the  zenith  of  suc- 
cess was  reached.  The  pews  were  all  let,  and  many 
persons  applied  for  seats  in  vain.  In  the  fifth  year  a 
change  began  to  be  perceptible.  There  was  no 
longer  a  crowd.  In  the  sixth  year  there  were  many 
vacant  seats,  and  some  of  his  most  substantial  sup- 
porters had  moved  into  new  and  distant  suburbs. 
In  the  seventh  year  the  process  of  disintegration 
was  manifest.  Hence  the  present  meeting,  the  ob- 

9 


io       A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

ject  of  which  was  the  discussion  of  what  Deacon 
Roberts  tiresomely  described  as  "the  situation." 

In  the  early  years  of  his  ministry  Gaunt  had  been 
accustomed  to  describe  himself  as  more  free  than 
any  minister  in  New  York.  He  could  preach  any 
doctrine  he  pleased,  he  was  untroubled  by  any  ques- 
tion of  finance,  and  he  was  conscious  of  an  atmos- 
phere of  warm  loyalty  among  his  people.  When 
some  of  his  less  successful  brethren  complained  of 
their  difficulties  in  relation  to  their  people,  he  smiled 
with  the  suave  commiseration  of  a  superior  person. 
It  seemed  to  him  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  to 
manage  men,  to  attach  them  to  one's  self,  to  evoke 
from  them  generous  feelings  and  acts. 

"I  have  never  had  a  day's  trouble  in  my  church/' 
he  was  accustomed  to  say. 

This  was  true  in  the  broad,  general  sense  in  which 
he  intended  it,  but,  nevertheless,  it  had  never  rep- 
resented the  real  facts  of  the  case.  He  had  always 
carried  out  his  own  policies,  but  he  was  perfectly 
aware  that  he  could  not  have  done  so  but  for  the 
fact  of  his  success  in  the  pulpit.  The  most  conten- 
tious church  critic  is  silent  in  the  presence  of  visible 
success.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  he  will  be  al- 
ways silent.  Churches,  like  armies,  live  by  con- 
quest; when  conquest  ceases,  mutiny  begins. 

During  the  last  year  John  Gaunt  had  slowly  come 
to  a  partial  understanding  of  this  law.  It  was  only 
partial,  for  his  own  reluctance  to  face  the  facts  of 
the  case  made  him  a  slow  learner.  He  had  carefully 


THE   DEACONS'   MEETING        u 

closed  his  ears  to  many  veiled  hints  on  the  part  of 
the  managers  of  the  church,  the  significance  of 
which  was  obvious.  But  the  pressure  of  facts,  how- 
ever slowly  exerted,  cannot  be  continuously  resisted. 
His  own  eyes  told  him  that  his  congregation  was 
falling  off.  To  himself  he  explained  this  disastrous 
fact  by  the  departure  of  many  of  his  best  supporters 
to  the  rapidly  growing  suburbs  of  the  city.  But  he 
soon  found  that  such  explanations  excited  no  sym- 
pathy in  the  minds  of  men  like  Deacon  Roberts, 
who  were  accustomed  to  measure  things  by  results, 
and  knew  no  other  standard  of  measurement.  The 
laws  of  finance,  like  natural  laws,  have  no  pity.  It 
was  useless  to  say  to  himself,  as  he  had  often  do,ne 
of  late,  that  a  church  is  not  a  financial  affair,  and 
ought  not  to  be  treated  as  such :  his  managers  were, 
with  one  exception,  men  used  to  judge  things  solely 
from  the  financial  standpoint,  and  they  were  quite 
inaccessible  to  sentiment.  From  the  moment  when 
a  deficit  was  reported  in  the  church  accounts,  he 
was  conscious  of  a  certain  change  of  attitude  to- 
ward him. 

It  was  then  that  he  made  the  most  painful  dis- 
covery of  his  life;  for  the  first  time  he  realized  that 
he  was  the  paid  servant  of  the  church.  The  gross, 
naked  reality  of  his  relationship  to  his  board  of 
managers  was  disclosed.  It  had  been  carefully  hid- 
den during  the  years  of  success;  so  carefully  that  he 
had  forgotten  its  existence.  In  those  years  his 
boast  was  true;  he  had  not  had  a  day's  trouble 


12        A   PROPHET    IN   BABYLON 

in  his  church.  Crowds  hung  upon  his  words;  with 
the  magic  of  his  voice  he  could  raise  any  sum  of 
money  he  wished;  and  when  he  met  his  managers 
for  the  discussion  of  affairs  the  meetings  were  as 
nearly  jovial  as  decorum  would  permit.  Of  course 
he  had  imagined  that  this  happy  state  of  things 
would  continue.  It  sometimes  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  miraculously  fed,  like  Elijah  by  the  ravens. 
His  income  was  transferred  silently  to  his  pocket, 
and  it  seemed  given  rather  than  earned.  He  asked 
no  question  how  it  was  raised;  there  was  no  need. 
But  for  months  now  he  had  been  secretly  uneasy; 
and  though  hitherto  no  word  had  been  said  to  him, 
he  was  conscious  in  the  changed  looks  of  his  man- 
agers that  they  grudged  what  they  gave  him. 

To  a  proud  and  brilliant  man  this  perception  was 
torture.  Some  men  would  have  sought  that  easy 
way  of  escape  which  is  found  in  a  change  of  pas- 
torate. He  could  hardly  doubt  that  many  pulpits 
would  welcome  him,  if  it  were  known  that  he  de- 
sired them.  But  here  his  pride  blocked  the  way,  and 
beneath  his  pride  was  a  stratum  of  stubbornness 
which  was  impenetrable.  He  was  perfectly  aware  of 
his  gifts,  although  the  knowledge  never  degenerated 
into  vanity.  He  knew  that  he  could  preach  as  few 
men  could,  and  he  was  not  wrong  when  he  told  him- 
self that  he  was  preaching  to-day  better  than  he  had 
ever  preached  in  his  life.  For,  with  all  its  brilliance, 
his  mind  was  one  that  fructifies  with  experience, 
that  goes  on  learning  and  broadening  with  the  years. 


THE    DEACONS'    MEETING        13 

He  had  only  to  compare  his  early  sermons  with 
those  preached  recently  to  discover  that  his  mind  had 
made  great  advances  in  the  seven  years  of  his  min- 
istry; and  he  told  himself,  with  some  bitterness,  that 
if  these  poor  early  sermons  attracted  crowds,  the 
later  sermons  were  infinitely  better  deserving  of 
success. 

Yet  the  plain  fact  met  him  that  his  career  of  suc- 
cess was  abruptly  closed.  He  no  longer  moved 
along  the  privileged  way,  with  the  elect  company 
of  those  for  whom  the  gifts  of  life  are  unrestrained. 
He  had  to  fight  for  his  position;  it  seemed  not  un- 
likely that  he  might  even  have  to  fight  for  his  daily 
bread.  He  had  often  used  the  word  "sordid"  of 
that  great  army  of  strugglers  who  compose  the  ma- 
jority in  every  city — the  men  and  women  who  are 
too  absorbed  in  the  fight  for  bread  to  care  for  the 
poetries  and  philosophies;  it  seemed  now  that  he 
must  descend  from  his  pedestal  of  privilege,  and 
know  their  anxieties  and  miseries.  It  seemed  an  im- 
possible thing,  yet  there  had  been  fugitive  moments 
of  late  when  the  thought  thrilled  him.  But  there 
were  much  more  frequent  moments  of  pure  dismay. 
That  he  should  fail,  and  fail  too  after  having  tasted 
success; — no,  he  would  not  admit  it.  He  would  do 
something  novel,  striking,  impressive.  He  would 
put  all  his  gifts  to  service  as  he  had  never  done 
before.  .  .  .  And  he  had  done  it.  Never  had  his 
oratory  struck  so  full  a  note  as  in  these  last  months. 
His  wife,  his  own  most  gentle  and  acute  critic,  had 


14       A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

often  told  him  so.  His  friend  Palmer,  the  one 
deacon  of  the  church  who  lived  an  intellectual  life, 
had  corroborated  her  testimony.  Yet  here  was  the 
result — this  long  postponed,  but  inevitable  meeting 
of  his  deacons  to  consider  "the  situation." 

"It's  like  this,"  Deacon  Roberts  had  said:  "the 
time  has  come  when  we  must  cut  our  clothes  accord- 
ing to  our  cloth.  There  are  things  I  have  to  do  with- 
out, not  because  I  don't  want  them,  but  because  I 
can't  afford  them.  We've  just  got  to  cut  down 
expenses." 

"Of  course  we  all  know  that,"  replied  Deacon 
Hocking.  "That's  what  we're  here  for.  But  will 
brother  Roberts  tell  us  how?" 

There  was  an  odd  antipathy  between  Roberts 
and  Hocking.  Every  one  knew  that  whatever  the 
one  proposed  the  other  would  oppose,  and  that  into 
these  disputes  no  question  of  principle  ever  entered. 

"I'm  not  bound  to  answer,"  said  Roberts. 

"Yes,  you  are,"  retorted  Hocking.  "What's  the 
use  of  talking  about  economy  if  you  daren't  say 
what  you  mean  by  it?" 

Thus  challenged,  Roberts  gathered  himself  up  for 
a  set  speech.  He  was  a  small,  thin  man,  narrow- 
shouldered,  spectacled,  of  neat  appearance,  whose 
deferential  manners  concealed  a  temper  of  obstinate 
dogmatism.  He  had  fought  his  way  from  poverty 
to  relative  opulence,  and  had  learnt  nothing  in  the 
struggle  but  the  habit  of  penuriousness.  He  had  a 
peculiarly  irritating  voice,  thin  in  tone,  penetrating, 


THE    DEACONS'    MEETING        15 

i 

and  at  the  same  time  querulous.  Hocking  was 
a  large  man,  whose  bluff  manners  covered  an 
equal  barrenness  of  sentiment.  The  two  were  very 
friendly  in  private  life,  but  they  consistently  opposed 
each  other  on  all  public  business.  John  Gaunt  had 
treated  each  with  a  kind  of  humorous  disregard 
through  the  early  days  of  his  ministry;  but  lately 
he  had  come  to  regard  them  with  alarm,  perceiving 
in  them  qualities  of  opposition  of  which  they  had 
previously  given  no  sign. 

"Well,"  said  Roberts,  "my  meaning  is  plain. 
The  church  is  declining.  It's  not  foe  me  to  say 
why." 

Whereupon,  with  the  curious  inconsistency  of  the 
speaker  who  is  mastered  by  his  rhetoric  instead  of 
mastering  it,  he  proceeded  to  discuss  the  question 
at  large.  He  gave  facts  and  figures  with  a  deadly 
fluency.  The  minister  waited  in  tortured  impatience 
for  any  generous  or  illuminating  word.  The  speech 
was  precisely  the  sort  of  speech  that  would  be  made 
at  a  company  meeting  after  a  bad  year's  trade.  As 
Roberts  spoke,  in  his  precise,  cold  fashion,  an  almost 
visible  wave  of  despondency  settled  over  the  meet- 
ing. Gaunt  felt  as  though  he  was  at  his  own 
funeral,  hearing  the  will  read. 

"Such  are  the  facts/'  Roberts  concluded.  "We 
can  discuss  the  remedies  better  at  another  meeting 
when  the  pastor  is  not  present." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that !"  said  Gaunt.  "I  am  quite  pre- 
pared to  hear  all  that  you  have  to  say.  Indeed,  I 


16        A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

ought  to  hear  it,  since  it  concerns  me  more  than 
any  one  else." 

"Let  us  hear  what  the  pastor  himself  has  to  say/" 
suggested  Hocking. 

"I've  very  little  to  say/'  replied  Gaunt,  "and  I'm 
not  sure  that  I  can  say  it  without  giving  offence. 
What  has  impressed  me  most  to-night  is  that  you 
all  seem  to  accept  defeat  as  if  it  were  irreparable. 
I  have  listened  in  vain  for  the  note  of  courage.  I 
may  as  well  let  you  know  at  once  that  I  am  not  of 
that  spirit.  I  am  going  on.  It's  not  a  time  for 
economy,  hut  generosity.  Wise  generals  don't  re- 
duce their  forces  in  the  face  of  the  enemy.  No  doubt 
we  have  lost  some  of  our  best  members.  We  all 
know  why.  They  have  migrated  to  the  suburbs. 
But  there  are  more  people  living  at  the  very  doors  of 
the  church  than  there  were  seven  years  ago  when 
I  commenced  my  ministry.  I  propose  to  get  those 
people." 

"We  don't  want  them,"  interrupted  an  old  deacon 
named  Small.  "They  are  not  our  kind  of  folk.  They 
wouldn't  mix." 

"They  are  people,  at  all  events,"  said  Gaunt,  with 
a  grave  smile.  "It  may  be  a  misfortune  that  the 
church  is  situated  among  them,  but  since  it  is,  the 
church  ought  to  exist  for  them  more  than  for  any- 
body else." 

"That's  very  well  in  sentiment,  no  doubt,"  re- 
torted the  old  deacon.  "But  it  won't  work.  This 
has  always  been  a  church  of  the  rich,  and  if  it 


THE    DEACONS'    MEETING        17 

changes  its  character  there  are  many  of  us  that 
won't  wish  to  stay  in  it." 

Gaunt  had  it  on  his  tongue  to  say,  "Then  let  the 
rich  support  it,"  but  he  was  restrained  by  the  recol- 
lection of  his  own  attitude  of  mind  in  previous  years. 
How  often  had  he  been  pleased  to  hear  the  church 
described  as  a  church  of  the  rich !  He  had  boasted 
of  it,  not  in  a  vain  or  sordid  way  it  is  true;  but  he 
had  boasted.  It  had  seemed  to  him  a  matter  of 
legitimate  pride  that  his  influence  had  been  exerted 
over  rich  men.  Of  course  he  had  done  nothing  to 
discourage  the  poor  from  attending  nis  ministra- 
tions, but  he  had  not  wanted  them,  or  sought  them, 
or,  indeed,  thought  much  about  them.  To  influ- 
ence the  rich,  to  attract  the  men  of  means,  to  direct 
their  generosities — was  not  that,  after  all,  the  best 
way  to  serve  the  poor?  So  he  had  argued  a  hun- 
dred times.  Because  he  had  so  argued  his  tongue 
was  now  tied.  And  yet  for  a  vivid  moment  he  now 
saw  a  vision  of  the  poor — the  struggling  multitude 
with  their  pathetic  pretence  of  competence,  the  daily 
workers  crowded  in  narrow  rooms,  the  heroic  silent 
throng  of  uncomplaining  lives  around  him,  and  he 
felt  the  pathos  of  their  lot. 

But  they  "wouldn't  mix."  Well,  was  the  sentiment, 
however  offensive  it  sounded,  so  far  from  the  truth  ? 
And  with  this  question  came  another  which  stung 
him  more  painfully:  was  he  the  kind  of  man  who 
had  any  message  for  the  poor?  From  the  day  he 
had  left  the  seminary  he  had  grown  fastidious,  and 


i8        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

ever  more  fastidious,  in  his  tastes  and  habits.  Cir- 
cumstances had  helped  him.  He  had  lived  among 
people  of  good  manners  and  easy  lives.  He  had 
met  a  good  many  persons  of  intellectual  tastes,  and 
he  had  developed  wonderfully  through  the  need  im- 
posed upon  him  to  understand  and  interpret  their 
ways  of  thinking.  If  his  deacons  were  men  of  com- 
moner quality,  at  all  events  they  had  admired  him. 
So  everything  had  favoured  the  growth  of  his  intel- 
lectualism.  But  he  was  dimly  aware  that  every 
step  in  this  road  of  cold  and  fastidious  intellectual- 
ism  had  taken  him  further  from  the  mass  of  the 
people.  He  no  longer  knew  the  dialect  of  their 
thought.  He  had  not  the  key  to  their  life.  In  the 
pride  of  his  mind  he  often  told  himself  that  it  was 
not  necessary  for  him  to  speak  so  as  to  be  under- 
stood of  the  common  people.  Lesser  men  could  do 
this :  but  he  was  a  preacher  to  the  cultured,  and  he 
demanded  a  certain  sensitiveness  of  ideas  and  sym- 
pathies in  his  hearers  as  the  surface  on  which  his  own 
thoughts  could  interpret  themselves.  And  now  once 
more  there  flashed  upon  his  mind  a  faint  vision  of 
the  poor,  as  he  had  read  about  them  in  books  and 
newspaper  articles;  the  strugglers  who  did  not  read, 
whose  minds  lay  dim  and  undeveloped  under  clouds 
of  drudgery  and  harassing  anxiety.  It  was  a  fine 
thing  to  say  he  meant  to  get  these  people  into  his 
church;  but  could  he?  Had  he  any  message  for 
them  ?  Could  he  himself  mix  with  them  ? 

He  did  not  know,  but  he  felt  his  courage  ebbing 


THE    DEACONS'    MEETING        19 

at  the  prospect.  The  cold  wave  of  despondency 
which  had  submerged  the  meeting  at  last  rolled  over 
him,  too.  He  became  conscious  of  an  immense 
weariness:  weariness  of  his  position,  of  the  diffi- 
culties that  beset  him,  of  life  itself. 

There  was  no  further  discussion.  One  by  one  the 
deacons  rose,  and  bade  him  good-night.  When  he 
went  out  into  the  street  it  was  raining,  and  the  city 
wore  its  most  doleful  aspect. 

He  buttoned  up  his  coat  and  went  home  with  a 
dismal  sense  that  the  triumph  of  life  was  over  for 
him.  Henceforth  nothing  awaited  him  but  defeat. 


II 

A  SELLER   OF   RHETORIC 

WHEN  Gaunt  woke  next  morning  the  sun 
was  shining  brightly  and  the  late  No- 
vember air  was  soft  and  pleasant.  His 
good  spirits  came  back  to  him  with  a  rush,  as  they 
usually  did  on  days  of  abundant  sunlight.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  believe  in  himself  on  such  a  morn- 
ing. The  city  itself  which  spread  around  him,  this 
wonderful  New  York,  with  its  disorderly  gaiety, 
its  clamant  light-heartedness,  its  atmosphere  of  en- 
ergy, courage,  triumph,  set  his  nerves  tingling  with 
a  new  sense  of  life.  New  York  believed  so  vehe- 
mently in  itself.  It  was  prodigal,  corrupt,  foolish, 
yet,  somehow,  it  went  on  in  its  path  of  careless  con- 
quest. Its  men  and  women  were  a  race  by  them- 
selves. They  took  the  chances  of  life  with  such 
inimitable  gaiety.  This  was  the  outstanding  char- 
acteristic about  them  which  had  always  moved 
Gaunt  to  admiration.  In  older  countries  and  cities 
— London,  for  example,  in  which  he  had  once  been 
a  sojourner  for  several  months — when  men  failed 
they  went  down,  and  that  was  the  end  of  them.  In 
New  York  failure  was  regarded  as  a  mere  episode 
on  the  way  of  success.  Men  felt  the  solid  ground 

20 


A    SELLER    OF    RHETORIC         21 

suddenly  shift  beneath  their  feet,  but  they  just 
squared  their  shoulders,  escaped  the  avalanche  by  a 
hair's  breadth,  and  were  soon  climbing  again  with 
undiminished  courage.  Well,  and  he  was  a  New 
Yorker.  He  had  lived  long  enough  in  the  city  to 
be  infected  by  its  spirit.  He  must  now  show  that 
he  had  profited  by  it,  and  be  up  and  doing  to  rebuild 
the  tottering  structure  of  his  success. 

He  was  quite  gay  when  he  sat  down  to  break- 
fast, and  his  wife  rejoiced  and  expanded  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  his  cheerfulness,  as  flowers  expand  in 
the  sun.  She  was  by  nature  a  person  of  equal  tem- 
perament, indefatigably  diligent,  kind-hearted,  and 
sweet-tempered.  She  had  little  imagination,  and  so 
was  spared  those  extremes  of  emotion  which  come 
from  a  too  acute  vision  of  things.  Life  was  for 
her  a  very  plain  and  practical  piece  of  business;  its 
one  commanding  ethic  was  to  do  the  duty  that  lay 
at  hand,  and  do  it  as  well  as  could  be.  Gaunt  had 
sometimes  wished  that  she  had  more  power  of  enter- 
ing into  his  inner  world  of  thought  and  feeling,  but 
he  had  come  to  recognise  that  her  very  disability 
gave  her  a  kind  of  undisturbed  serenity  and  strength 
on  which  he  was  glad  to  lean.  On  any  practical 
question  he  would  have  trusted  her  judgment 
against  his  own.  Upon  the  more  delicate  issues  of 
conduct  he  would  have  hesitated  to  consult  her.  He 
loved  her,  of  course,  but  it  was  not  with  that  ador- 
ing passion  which  far  less  competent  women  often 
excite.  But  if  he  could  not  give  her  passion,  he  gave 


22        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

her  what  women  of  capricious  charm  rarely  get, 
complete  confidence  in  her  wisdom  and  her  ability 
to  guide  his  affairs  with  discretion.  Was  she  con- 
tent with  what  he  gave?  She  believed  she  was; 
but  what  woman  ever  yet  was  really  content  with 
the  rewards  of  discretion ;  what  woman  in  her  private 
thoughts  does  not  yearn  for  the  touch  of  passion 
which  transfigures  life?  Margaret  Gaunt  had 
known  that  yearning,  but  being  a  woman  of  equal 
temperament  had  dried  her  secret  tears,  had  called 
herself  foolish  for  indulging  them,  and  had  schooled 
herself  into  contentment  with  her  lot.  It  was  the  sort 
of  victory  which  multitudes  of  women  attain,  but  it 
is  rarely  so  complete  that  the  heart  never  wakens 
from  its  trance — a  truth  which  Margaret  Gaunt  was 
to  discover  later  on,  as  her  life  moved  out  upon  a 
broader  current  to  stormier  seas. 

She  made  a  pleasant  figure  as  she  sat  behind  the 
steaming  coffee-maker  that  morning.  Her  calm  face 
refreshed  by  dreamless  sleep  had  a  bright,  girlish 
colour  in  it,  her  hair  was  arranged  in  a  broad  brown 
braid,  and  she  wore  a  plain  linen  dress  which  ad- 
mirably suited  her.  Her  face  was  not  beautiful  in 
any  ordinary  sense,  but  her  brow  was  broad,  and 
her  eyes  were  of  that  hue  of  clear  gray  which  be- 
speaks sincerity. 

"You  were  very  late  last  night,"  she  said.  "It 
was  good  of  you  not  to  disturb  me." 

"Yes;  the  meeting  went  on  longer  than  we  ex- 
pected," he  replied. 


A    SELLER    OF    RHETORIC         23 

"What  did  they  do?  I  hope  it  all  went  off 
pleasantly." 

"Well,  no.  Not  exactly  pleasantly,  but  still  we 
got  through." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

"Oh,  you  can  guess,"  he  replied.  "Roberts  is  all 
for  economy,  and  I  imagine  he  only  says  bluntly 
what  the  others  think." 

"Well,  I  suppose  he's  right.  I'm  sure  it  wouldn't 
hurt  us  any  if  we  gave  up  the  quartette.  They  cost 
a  great  deal,  and  lately  they've  sung  dreadfully  flat. 
Besides  which,  they  don't  really  take  any  interest  in 
the  service.  The  men  have  taken  to  go  out  during 
your  sermon,  and  it's  my  belief  they  go  out  to  smoke, 
and  the  women  sit  and  yawn." 

Gaunt  frowned.  He  knew  very  well  the  truth 
of  what  his  wife  said,  but  he  did  not  like  to  hear  her 
say  it.  However,  he  covered  his  annoyance  with  a 
laugh,  and  replied:  "Well,  I  don't  think  that  idea 
struck  Roberts  or  any  one  else.  Besides,  it's  pre- 
posterous; we  must  maintain  the  music  at  all  costs." 

"Why?"  she  asked.  "You  wouldn't  be  pleased 
if  I  kept  an  incompetent  maid  in  your  house.  You 
would  ask  if  she  was  worth  the  price.  Besides,  I 
suppose  that  if  the  managers  talk  of  economy  there 
is  some  real  need  for  it,  and  they  realize  that  they 
must  cut  their  clothes  according  to  their  cloth." 

It  was  the  very  phrase  which  Roberts  had  used, 
but  as  he  now  heard  it  on  the  lips  of  his  wife  it 
seemed  to  have  an  almost  malignant  meaning.  It 


24        A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

laid  bare  the  whole  commercial  side  of  the  church 
too  nakedly,  too  grossly.  He  made  no  effort  now 
to  conceal  his  annoyance. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  like  that,  Margaret. 
It  hurts  me  more  than  I  can  say.  You  make  me  feel 
just  what  I  felt  last  night  when  Roberts  was  speak- 
ing, that  there's  nothing  sacred  about  a  church, 
and  nothing  delicate  in  my  relations  to  it — that  it's 
all  a  matter  of  commerce,  and  I  am  what  Augustine 
long  ago  so  bitterly  called  himself,  a  mere  'seller  of 
rhetoric/  " 

"I  don't  know  Augustine,"  she  replied.  "Who 
was  he,  anyhow?  But  if  he  was  pastor  of  a  New 
York  church,  I  guess  he  spoke  the  truth.  You  see, 
dear,  however  you  may  put  it,  you  are  a  seller  of 
rhetoric,  and  very  fine  rhetoric,  too.  I  don't  see 
that  anything  can  alter  that,  and  I  don't  see  why 
you  and  I  shouldn't  speak  the  exact  truth  to  each 
other.  It  may  be  all  wrong,  but  that's  the  principle 
on  which  churches  are  run  to-day.  I  don't  believe 
Roberts  ever  thought  of  the  church  as  a  sacred  place 
in  his  life,  except,  of  course,  in  the  conventional 
sense.  It's  a  kind  of  business,  which  he  is  anxious 
to  run  at  a  profit.  So's  a  college  for  that  matter,  and 
the  professors  in  it;  what  are  they  but  sellers  of 
knowledge?  And  a  successful  poet;  what  is  he  but 
a  .seller  of  emotions  ?" 

"Well,  that's  not  my  idea  of  a  church,  and  I  don't 
believe  it's  really  yours." 

"I  didn't  say  it  was,  dear.    But  you  see  it's  not  a 


A    SELLER    OF    RHETORIC         25 

question  of  ideas  but  of  facts.  And  you  can't  dis- 
pute with  facts.  The  only  thing  you  can  do  is  to  be 
reconciled  to  them." 

"O  Margaret/'  he  replied,  with  a  passionate  ges- 
ture, "let  us  get  out  of  it  all.  Let  us  find  a  cottage 
somewhere  and  be  free.  But,  no,  that's  cowardice. 
It's  only  running  away.  And  I  gave  Roberts  my 
word  last  night  that  I  would  go  on,  that  I  would 
win  out  somehow.  .  .  .  Margaret,  help  me  to  be 
brave." 

"My  poor  dear,  you're  worried."  She  had  risen 
from  her  seat  and  stood  by  his  side.  She  laid  her 
cool,  capable  hands  a  moment  on  his  own,  and  said : 
"I  think  I  know  how  you  feel." 

"No,  you  don't,  dear,"  he  said.  "You  don't  know 
how  this  sort  of  thing  tortures  me,  and  God  forbid 
that  I  should  tell  you." 

"Well,  don't  be  tortured,"  she  said,  brightly.  "I 
don't  pretend  to  be  a  philosopher,  like  you;  but 
there's  one  bit  of  philosophy  I  do  know — admit  the 
facts  and  then  make  the  best  of  them.  I  never  knew 
a  house  yet  where  everything  went  on  perfectly. 
Something  is  always  going  wrong,  but  then  you 
expect  it,  and  you  don't  let  people  know  more  of  it 
than  you  can  help.  I  guess  churches  are  pretty 
much  the  same.  There's  a  lot  of  things  go  on  in  the 
basement  that  aren't  reported  upstairs.  But  there's 
no  need  to  think  too  much  about  them.  Now  you 
go  and  make  your  sermon  like  a  good  boy,  and  for- 
get all  about  Roberts  and  the  rest  of  them.  It  takes 


26        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

courage  to  forget,  more  courage  I  sometimes  think 
than  anything  else,  but  it's  the  only  way  to  go 
through  life  with  comfort/* 

Gaunt  could  not  help  smiling,  which  was  pre- 
cisely the  effect  which  she  wished  to  produce. 

"I  believe,"  he  said,  "there's  more  real  wisdom 
in  your  little  finger  than  in  my  whole  body." 

"Oh,  wisdom  of  a  kind,"  she  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"Wisdom  of  the  plain,  not  the  decorated  kind.  A 
woman  who  has  run  a  house  with  three  maids  in 
New  York  City  for  seven  years,  and  never  failed  to 
put  a  dinner  on  the  table  properly,  can't  help  learn- 
ing a  few  things  worth  knowing,  and  the  chief  is, 
just  to  go  on  and  don't  worry." 

"But  how  not  to  worry,  that's  the  question,  Mar- 
garet. I  don't  think  you  quite  realize  my  position, 
dear." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I've  seen  trouble  coming  for  a 
long  time.  Do  you  think  I've  not  noticed  the  change 
in  the  church,  people  leaving,  and  all  that?  If  it 
were  your  fault  I  should  worry  fast  enough,  but  I 
know  it  isn't,  and  so  I  don't  worry." 

"It  doesn't  matter  whose  fault  it  is,  from  what  I 
can  see.  It's  the  thing  itself,  the  humiliation  of  it." 

"/  don't  feel  humiliated,  anyway,"  she  said, 
proudly.  "When  I  am  I'll  let  you  know,  be  sure 
of  that.  It  it  comes  to  that,  I'd  rather  see  you  lead- 
ing a  forlorn  hope  than  finding  everything  easy. 
It's  much  more  interesting  for  one  thing,  and  it 
appeals  to  one  more.  Of  course  you're  going  to  be 


A    SELLER    OF    RHETORIC         27 

disappointed  in  some  of  the  people.  Adversity  leaves 
only  the  worthiest  for  one's  friends.  Well,  I  don't 
know  but  what  it's  worth  it.  I  think  you've  always 
thought  people  better  than  they  are, — the  church 
people,  I  mean, — and  so  you  expect  from  them  a  good 
deal  more  than  they  can  give.  Don't  you  think  it 
would  be  wise  just  to  admit  what  every  one  else 
sees  to  be  the  truth,  that  church  people  are  pretty 
much  like  other  folk,  with  all  sorts  of  streaks  in 
them,  and  none  of  them  good  or  bad  right  through?" 

"But  they  ought  to  be  better  than  other  folk,  Mar- 
garet. If  they  are  not,  it  is  my  reproach." 

"If  God  made  them  so,  I  don't  see  why  you  should 
worry  because  you  can't  improve  on  His  workman- 
ship. If  they  are  good  enough  for  Him  to  make, 
they  should  be  good  enough  for  you  to  put  up  with. 
So  you  take  my  advice,  dear,  and  just  go  on,  and 
don't  worry." 

Margaret  left  the  room  with  a  bright  smile  of 
gentle  mockery,  and  Gaunt  went  to  his  library. 
Usually  the  mere  sight  of  the  large,  quiet  room,  with 
its  long  rows  of  books,  brought  an  instant  com- 
posure, but  to-day  the  charm  failed. 

His  was  the  kind  of  mind  which,  once  started  on  a 
theme,  cannot  dismiss  it  at  will.  It  analyzes,  dis- 
cusses, dramatizes  the  intruding  thought;  allows  it 
to  possess  the  fancy,  to  dominate  the  will,  until  the 
entire  brain  is  full  of  its  echoes,  its  endless  personifi- 
cations, its  subtle  variations.  And  the  thought  which 
obsessed  him  now  was  this  humiliating  thought  that 


28        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

he  was  a  "seller  of  rhetoric/'  a  brain  and  voice 
bought  for  a  certain  sum  of  money  by  an  organisa- 
tion called  a  church. 

He  had  never  quite  seen  himself  in  this  light  be- 
fore. But  once  having  so  seen  himself,  he  could  see 
nothing  else.  It  did  not  help  him  to  reassure  him- 
self that  he  had  never  tampered  with  his  sincerity 
for  gain.  His  boast  of  freedom  was  true  as  far 
as  it  went;  he  had  taught  what  he  pleased,  and  had 
never  consciously  modified  his  teachings  to  suit  any 
man's  views.  But  behind  this  boast  there  emerged 
a  disconcerting  question :  had  not  his  power  to  please 
the  taste  of  his  hearers  arisen  simply  from  the  fact 
that  he  had  accepted  his  environment,  and  uncon- 
sciously adapted  himself  to  it?  Was  not  his  whole 
mental  life  like  the  dyer's  hand,  "subdued  to  what 
it  worked  in"  ?  He  remembered  now  some  of  those 
hasty  socialistic  generalisations  which  he  had  taken 
for  truths  in  his  seminary  days.  He  had  then  held, 
or  thought  he  held,  very  decided  views  on  the  in- 
equality of  wealth.  Suppose  these  views  had  truth 
in  them,  why  had  he  not  preached  them?  And  he 
knew  that  the  reason  for  his  silence  did  not  lie  in 
any  radical  change  of  view,  but  in  his  unconscious 
compliance  with  his  environment.  It  was  uncon- 
scious, perhaps,  but  not  the  less  real.  For  a  man's 
temper  is  revealed  by  unconscious  qualities  as  well 
as  conscious;  is  even  more  truthfully  revealed,  be- 
cause there  is  no  effort  to  retard  the  truth. 

From  this  his  mind  passed  at  a  bound  to  a  more 


A    SELLER    OF    RHETORIC         29 

disturbing  question:  was  the  accepted  organisation 
of  a  modern  church  right  ?  Could  any  sincere  man 
suppose  that  the  poor  Man  of  Nazareth  would  have 
approved  the  hire  of  men  for  their  talents  as  the 
ministers  of  His  Church?  Was  it  not  inevitable 
that  the  real  truth  about  things  could  scarcely  be 
spoken  under  such  conditions,  since  he  who  lived  to 
please  must  needs  please  to  live  ? 

And  the  longer  he  thought,  the  clearer  there  rose 
before  his  mind  the  vision  of  the  Man  out  of  whose 
Tragedy  all  churches  had  been  born — His  poverty 
and  contentment  with  poverty;  His  simplicity  and 
entire  unworldliness;  His  disdain  for  appearances, 
for  conventions,  for  the  smooth  hypocrisies  of  tradi- 
tional religion;  His  boldness  in  the  face  of  certain 
social  disaster;  His  sublime  unselfishness;  and  at 
last  His  solitary  death,  deserted  even  by  those  who 
had  believed  Him,  and  yet  secure  in  His  own  knowl- 
edge of  victory,  in  His  own  sense  of  the  things  for 
which  He  was  born  having  been  really  done.  Alas, 
who  could  say  that?  Whose  life  was  not  based  on 
compromise?  And  yet  surely  the  very  essence  of 
that  divine  Life  was  the  lesson  that  compromise  with 
truth  is  death,  that  the  only  victory  is  complete 
sincerity. 

Dared  he  be  sincere,  he,  John  Gaunt?  That  was 
the  real  question  which  confronted  him.  It  was  the 
only  real  question  in  life. 

But  like  most  questions  that  go  to  the  core  and 
root  of  things  it  was  spoken  so  quietly  that  he  did 


30        A    PROPHET    IN   BABYLON 

not  at  first  comprehend  its  force.  It  was  a  still  small 
voice  within  his  soul,  the  sound  of  a  bell  heard 
underneath  the  sea,  in  a  submerged  belfry.  It  fell 
strangely  on  the  ear  of  his  spirit.  For,  like  most 
men  who  lead  a  busy  public  life,  he  had  gradually 
ceased  to  have  any  real  acquaintance  with  himself. 
The  very  need,  the  constant  call,  for  the  expression 
of  his  thoughts  had  led  him  to  a  rapid  harvesting 
only  of  such  thoughts  as  lay  upon  the  surface  of 
the  mind;  he  knew  nothing  of  the  depths.  And  now 
from  that  depth  of  his  own  unrecognized  personality 
there  came  this  quiet  voice,  which  spoke  with  incom- 
parable clearness,  asking  him  whether  he  had  ever 
been  sincere;  whether  he  could  be,  even  if  he  would? 

In  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term  he  could  answer, 
Yes :  he  had  never  dealt  falsely  with  himself.  But 
he  now  saw  that  such  a  reply  was  insufficient.  Had 
he  dealt  truly?  Had  he  ever  allowed  his  soul  free 
play?  And  he  knew  he  had  not.  It  was  not  the 
selling  of  rhetoric  which  troubled  him  now;  it  was 
rather  that  he  had  sold  himself.  Not  in  any  vulgar 
sense,  of  course;  not  as  men  did  who  made  fortunes 
by  fraud  or  dishonesty;  but  he  had  sold  himself 
for  praise,  and  had  lived  by  and  for  praise,  and  that 
was  why  the  withdrawal  of  praise  was  to  him  a 
torture. 

So  decisive  was  the  verdict  that  he  looked  round 
the  room  uneasily,  as  though  he  feared  that  the  in- 
ward voice  might  be  overheard. 

As  he  did  so,  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  large  photo- 


A    SELLER    OF    RHETORIC         31 

gravure  of  a  picture  which  had  always  fascinated 
him,  the  Christ  upon  the  Cross,  by  Velasquez.  Mar- 
garet, with  her  practical  mind,  had  always  objected 
to  it,  as  much  too  morbid  and  depressing  for  the 
library  of  a  thinker.  He  had  often  thought  of  re- 
moving it,  but  whenever  he  essayed  to  do  so,  the 
pathos  of  the  picture  moved  him  afresh,  and  seemed 
to  protest  against  the  wrong  he  would  do  it.  He 
looked  at  it  now,  the  dim  background,  the  bowed 
head  with  the  dark  hair  fallen  over  the  forehead 
in  the  last  abandonment  of  pain,  the  white,  rigid 
limbs,  the  finality,  the  majesty,  the  conquering  tran- 
quillity of  it  all — -he  looked,  and  instinctively  fell 
upon  his  knees. 

For  He  had  heard — that  silent  spectator  on  the 
Cross. 

And  He  had  asked  the  question,  too — He  whose 
death  was  the  sublime  vindication  of  sincerity. 

"God  help  me  to  be  sincere;  I  will  try." 

He  hardly  knew  that  he  had  spoken  the  words. 
Perhaps  he  did  not.  But  his  inmost  soul  had  spoken, 
and  deep  had  answered  unto  deep. 


Ill 

PARADISE   LOST 

GAUNT  worked  throughout  the  day  steadily 
at  his  sermon  without  making  much  prog- 
ress. He  was  usually  a  rapid  worker,  but 
to-day  his  faculty  of  concentration  failed  him.  He 
tried  theme  after  theme,  but  each  in  turn  seemed 
barren.  He  searched  his  notebook  for  suggestions, 
but  found  none.  It  would  seem  that  his  emotional 
experience  had  had  the  unforeseen  effect  of  altering 
the  values  of  his  entire  world  of  thought,  as  the 
wave  of  earthquake  creates  new  landscapes,  by  dis- 
placement and  transposition. 

Ordinarily  his  sensitive  taste  would  have  been 
quickly  attracted  by  some  poetic  phrase  of  Scripture, 
which  he  would  have  clothed  with  literary  allusion, 
and  expanded  into  a  series  of  suggestive  paragraphs. 
The  result  would  have  been  an  essay,  more  or  less 
exquisite  according  to  his  mood.  How  often  had  he 
gone  into  the  pulpit  to  deliver  such  an  essay,  him- 
self keenly  aware  of  its  fine  points,  and  glad  in  the 
knowledge  of  his  own  efficiency !  How  often  had  he 
been  thrillingly  conscious  of  the  visible  delight  of 
his  hearers  when  he  reached  and  declaimed  those 
passages  in  his  discourse  which  best  displayed  his 
ability !  But  now,  for  a  reason  which  he  had  not  yet 

32 


PARADISE    LOST  33 

fully  apprehended,  such  a  method  of  preaching  sud- 
denly appeared  to  him  futile  and  empty.  Yet  he 
knew  no  other.  The  habit  of  seven  years  was  not 
to  be  broken  in  a  moment.  So  he  toiled  on  with  a 
perplexed  mind,  and  a  painful  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment in  himself. 

In  the  evening  his  friend  Palmer  called.  Palmer 
was  the  one  deacon,  already  referred  to,  who  could 
be  said  to  live  an  intellectual  life.  He  was  a  spare 
man  of  about  forty,  with  a  high  dome  of  forehead, 
fringed  by  grizzled  black  hair,  a  satirical  mouth,  and 
a  pair  of  peculiarly  keen  light-blue  eyes.  He  had 
had  a  curious  career.  The  son  of  prosperous  farm- 
ing folk  in  the  South,  he  had  worked  his  way 
through  college  with  the  sparsest  help  from  home, 
for  his  father  had  had  no  sympathy  with  his  ambi- 
tions. He  had  intended  entering  the  ministry,  but 
had  been  prevented  by  his  own  early  loss  of  faith. 
At  the  close  of  his  college  course  he  had  actually 
been  a  student  in  a  theological  seminary,  but  the 
little  stock  of  faith  he  took  with  him  to  the  seminary 
had  been  quite  dissolved  in  his  attempt  to  acquire 
theological  knowledge.  The  further  he  went,  the 
less  he  found  in  which  he  could  really  believe.  He 
was  further  discouraged  by  the  low  tone  of  reli- 
gious feeling  among  his  fellow-students,  and  to  a 
certain  degree  among  the  professors  also.  In  the 
general  talk  among  the  students  he  found  the  min- 
istry regarded  almost  entirely  as  a  profession.  The 
main  theme  of  conversation  was  the  status  of  various 


34        A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

churches,  the  salaries  they  paid,  and  the  chances 
each  man  thought  he  had  of  securing  a  prize.  There 
were  exceptions,  of  course.  There  was  Rees  Allen, 
a  genuine  enthusiast,  who  had  gone  to  China  as  a 
missionary,  and  had  perished  in  the  Boxer  riots. 
There  was  another  good  little  fellow  called  Stimson, 
whose  faith  was  proof  against  all  criticism  simply 
because  his  intellect  was  radically  incapable  of  under- 
standing that  criticism  could  exist  in  relation  to 
faith.  These  men,  and  a  few  others  of  kindred 
qualities,  formed  a  group  by  themselves,  and  with 
them  he  had  no  contact.  As  to  the  professors  he 
could  never  rid  himself  of  the  idea  that  they  were 
the  paid  apologists  of  a  system  of  truth  which  they 
themselves  only  believed  with  many  reservations. 
In  this  conclusion  he  was  not  quite  just:  he  was 
simply  misled  by  the  fact  that  he  knew  the  professors 
only  on  their  intellectual  side ;  and  he  did  not  allow 
for  the  fact  that  it  was  their  main  business  to  criti- 
cise the  basis  of  faith  rather  than  impart  its  spirit. 
But,  although  in  later  years  he  judged  more  fairly, 
at  the  time  these  immature  conclusions  were  disas- 
trous to  him.  The  result  was  that  when  the  time 
came  for  him  to  enter  the  ministry,  his  repugnance 
to  it  had  become  invincible.  He  knew  that  he  had 
nothing  to  teach  that  was  of  any  moment  to  the 
world;  and  when  the  professor  whom  he  most  re- 
spected assured  him  that  faith  would  come  by  the 
inculcation  of  faith  in  others,  he  replied  satirically 
that  at  least  the  success  of  the  process  was  not  appa- 


PARADISE    LOST  35 

rent  in  his  instructors.    That  sentence  closed  to  him 
the  career  of  the  ministry. 

When  the  doors  of  the  seminary  closed  behind 
him,  he  went  out  into  the  world  without  the  least 
idea  of  what  path  he  would  take.  At  first  he  drifted 
westward,  attracted  by  the  freedom,  energy,  virility, 
and  infinite  promise  of  the  West.  One  summer 
found  him  bridge-building  on  the  Yukon,  another 
engaged  in  journalistic  work  in  Seattle.  For  a  whole 
winter  he  toiled  in  a  lumber  camp  in  Wisconsin. 
Here,  for  the  first  time,  he  came  to  grips  with  real 
life — that  primitive  life  of  men  which  has  gone  on 
since  the  first  day  broke,  and  will  continue  to  the 
hour  when  the  last  sunset  leaves  the  world  tenant- 
less  and  dark.  There  was  no  time  for  speculative 
thought  in  a  life  that  endured  hunger  and  thirst,  the 
pressure  of  primal  needs,  the  lash  of  excessive  and 
unintermitted  labour.  He  fared  roughly,  slept 
soundly,  was  drenched  with  rain  and  storm,  and 
came  to  rejoice  in  the  crude  valours  of  his  daily  toil. 
He  came  also  to  appreciate  the  manhood  of  his  asso- 
ciates. They  were  strange  comrades  for  one  of  his 
upbringing;  men  coarse  in  thought  and  life,  and 
often  stained  by  crime,  but  they  took  life  with  a 
sort  of  brutal  good-nature,  and  they  had  the  crown- 
ing virtue  of  courage.  He  found  in  them,  and  in 
the  life  he  lived  with  them,  just  the  kind  of  tonic 
which  his  soul  needed.  Questions  of  creed  and 
destiny  seemed  irrelevant  and  ridiculous  in  such 
scenes.  They  were  the  mere  toys  over  which  chil- 


36        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

dren  disputed;  they  belonged  to  an  artificial  life;  the 
very  vastness  of  the  forest,  the  march  of  stars  across 
the  lonely  heavens,  the  daily  contact  with  primeval 
earth,  removed  him  at  an  immeasurable  distance 
from  such  trivialities.  That  winter  in  the  lumber 
camp  taught  him  many  lessons,  the  chief  of  which 
were  faith  in  man  as  man,  and  the  conviction  that 
the  chief  business  of  life  is  to  live,  not  to  get  a  living, 
and  still  less  to  pass  one's  time  in  tedious  disputes 
about  the  nature  of  life. 

All  the  time,  however,  he  was  slowly,  though  un- 
consciously, coming  to  the  knowledge  of  his  own 
faculties.  He  knew  that  this  life  of  primitive  exer- 
tion could  not  last;  it  was  but  an  episode.  It  was 
inevitable  that  he  should  return  to  cities,  and  in  due 
time  he  found  himself  in  New  York  studying  law. 
Here,  at  last,  his  analytic  mind  found  its  true  arena. 
He  succeeded  slowly  in  his  career,  not  for  want  of 
energy,  but  because  he  had  no  great  passion  for 
success.  He  was  content  with  modest  competence, 
where  most  men  of  his  ability  would  have  pushed  on 
to  fortune.  But  he  was  one  of  those  men  who  find 
in  leisure  for  books  and  private  study  a  much 
happier  fruit  of  labour  than  could  ever  come 
through  wealth  purchased  at  the  price  of  a  con- 
stantly harassed  and  divided  mind.  He  lived  a  quiet 
and  cultured  life  in  one  of  the  older  houses  of  Wash- 
ington Square,  with  his  favourite  sister  Esther  as 
his  housekeeper.  When  Gaunt  came  to  Mayfield 
Avenue  Church,  Palmer  found  him  out,  attracted 


PARADISE    LOST  37 

by  the  reports  of  Gaunt's  unusual  intellectual  ability. 
In  the  quiet  life  which  he  now  lived  some  of  his 
old  religious  beliefs  had  come  back  to  him,  though 
in  changed  and  attenuated  forms.  He  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  joining  a  church  where  freedom  of  belief 
was  so  wide  as  in  Gaunt's  church.  Later  on  he 
was  unable  to  discover  any  valid  reason  why  he 
should  not  become  a  deacon  in  the  church,  although 
he  accepted  the  position  more  out  of  love  for  Gaunt 
than  any  other  reason,  and  even  then  reluctantly. 
So  it  had  come  to  pass  that  the  two  men  had  become 
intimate  friends,  and  there  was  rarely  a  Friday 
night  when  Palmer  did  not  come  round  to  Gaunt's 
house  to  smoke  his  cigar,  and  talk  over  books  and 
philosophies. 

It  was  the  custom  with  Gaunt  to  discuss  with 
Palmer  the  themes  of  his  addresses,  and  it  was  nat- 
ural on  this  occasion  that  he  should  begin  by  describ- 
ing to  his  friend  the  new  difficulties  he  had  encoun- 
tered. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  felt  so  flat/'  he  said. 
"It's  not  that  I've  run  out  of  ideas,  my  mind  is  rest- 
less with  ideas,  but  I  don't  seem  able  to  co-ordinate 
them,  don't  seem  to  find  any  kind  of  text  that  offers 
hospitality  for  them." 

"Didn't  know  texts  were  created  for  any  such 
purpose,"  said  Palmer,  drily. 

"Perhaps  not,  but  it  seems  the  best  use  you  can 
put  them  to.  If  one  didn't  do  that,  logically  it  ought 
to  be  enough  just  to  read  a  text  and  be  done  with  it." 


38        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"Why  not?"  said  Palmer.  "After  all  Paul  man- 
ages to  say  more  in  five  words  than  you  do  in  five 
thousand/* 

"Why  not?  Because  my  occupation  would  be 
gone,  for  one  thing,"  laughed  Gaunt.  "And  if  it 
comes  to  that  why  don't  you  state  a  law  and  sit 
down  without  making  a  speech  on  behalf  of  your 
client?" 

"I  do  whenever  I  can,"  said  Palmer. 

"I'd  do  it,  too— if  I  could." 

"Oh,  no,  you  wouldn't.  You're  far  too  fond  of 
hearing  your  own  voice  for  that.  And  people  are 
too  fond  of  hearing  you,  and  you're  too  amiable  not 
to  indulge  them." 

"That's  not  very  flattering  to  me,  Palmer." 

"I  don't  flatter  any  one.  At  least  I  try  not.  Flat- 
tery is  the  diplomacy  of  feebleness.  When  you  find 
me  indulging  in  flattery  you  may  conclude  my  intel- 
lect is  decaying." 

"Well,  I'm  bound  to  say  you  do  usually  tell  me 
the  truth  about  myself.  How  many  fine  theories  of 
mine  you've  ridiculed  out  of  existence  in  this  very 
room!  And  yet,  Palmer,  there  are  some  things 
about  me  I  don't  believe  you  so  much  as  suspect — 
things  that  I  myself  have  only  suspected  lately." 

"What  things?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can  tell  you.  At  least 
I  can't  tell  you  in  so  many  words.  But  let  me  ask 
you  a  question.  You've  listened  to  me  for  several 
years,  and  your  approval  of  what  I've  said  I  take 


PARADISE    LOST  39 

for  granted.  I  would  like  to  know  if  in  all  these 
years  I've  ever  helped  you?" 

"Why,  of  course  you  have.  If  you  hadn't  I'm  not 
the  man  to  have  listened  to  you  so  long.  No  man 
of  any  intellect  can  listen  to  eloquence  without  a 
sense  of  exhilaration,  a  kind  of  glow  which  sends 
him  back  to  common  duty  with  a  lighter  heart." 

"That's  not  what  I  mean/'  said  Gaunt,  slowly. 
"Let  me  try  to  be  plain,  though  I  don't  find  it  easy." 

"No,  orators  never  do.  They  wouldn't  be  orators 
if  they  did." 

"Please  don't  jest,  I'm  really  serious." 

"Very  well,  I'll  be  sober  as  a  judge.  State  your 
case,  and  I'll  say  nothing  till  you're  through." 

"Well,  then,  this  is  the  point.  It  has  come  home 
to  me  to-day  in  quite  a  new  way  that  all  these  years 
I  may  have  been  playing  at  truth,  playing  at  life. 
Answer  me  honestly  this  question :  Have  I,  in  any- 
thing I  have  ever  said  or  done,  helped  you  in  such  a 
way  as  to  add  any  vital  elements  to  your  life?  I 
don't  doubt  your  admiration,  your  appreciation;  you 
have  given  me  these  in  a  measure  much  beyond  my 
deserts.  But  admiration  is  a  diet  on  which  a  man's 
soul  cannot  live.  Have  you  discovered  any  new 
truth  through  me  ?  Have  I  got  at  your  soul  in  any 
real  way?  I  know  the  very  phrase  sounds  strange 
and  strained.  Perhaps  you  will  think  that  it  savours 
of  cant.  You  and  I  have  discussed  theologies  and 
philosophies  without  number,  but  I  don't  remember 
one  genuine  conversation  on  religion.  It  is  because 


40        A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

of  this  that  I  shrink  even  now  from  naming  it.  But 
I  can't  be  silent  any  longer.  There  comes  a  time  in 
a  man's  life  when  he  takes  stock  of  himself,  goes 
through  his  life  with  a  relentless  inquisition,  and 
that  time  came  to  me  this  morning.  And  just  be- 
cause I  know  you  won't  flatter  me,  I  want  to  put  my 
question  with  absolute  frankness :  Have  I,  or  have  I 
not,  in  all  these  years  done  anything  to  create  in  you 
a  more  real  and  definite  sense  of  religion  ?" 

Palmer  rose  from  his  seat,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  room  in  perfect  silence  for  some  minutes. 
Then  he  stood  beside  the  chair  on  which  Gaunt  was 
sitting,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"You're  sure  you  want  me  to  tell  you  ?" 

"I'm  quite  sure." 

"Well,  let  me  tell  you  a  story.  Some  years  ago, 
as  you  know,  I  was  working  for  my  bread  in  a  lum- 
ber camp  in  Wisconsin.  The  life  was  hard  and 
brutal,  but  as  near  primitive  life  as  a  modern  man 
can  get.  I  suppose  not  a  man  amongst  us  ever 
prayed,  or  read  the  Scripture,  or  gave  the  least 
thought  to  religion;  and  for  months  I  was  no  better 
than  the  rest.  One  day  there  arrived  in  the  camp 
a  little  under-sized  fellow  called  Milton.  He  was 
so  obviously  out  of  place  that  we  nicknamed  him  in 
jest  Taradise  Lost.'  He  did  his  best  to  do  the  work 
other  men  did,  but  he  was  obviously  unfitted  for  it. 
When  we  got  back  from  the  woods  at  night,  and 
lay  down  in  our  bunks  in  the  huge  shack,  with  a 
red-hot  stove  in  the  middle,  poor  Taradise  Lost'  was 


PARADISE    LOST  41 

subjected  to  all  sorts  of  cruel  horseplay.  This  went 
on  for  weeks,  and  Taradise  Lost'  never  once  retorted 
with  an  oath  or  angry  word,  so  that  at  last  the  men 
gave  up  nagging  him  because  there  was  no  fun  in  it. 
Presently,  he  revealed  a  new  side  to  his  character. 
If  a  man  was  sick  and  mad  with  drink  'Paradise  Lost' 
would  sit  up  all  night  with  him,  and  help  him  fight 
through  the  horrors.  There  were  one  or  two  bad 
accidents  that  winter,  and  Taradise  Lost'  was  always 
ready  to  play  the  nurse,  and  did  it  with  a  skill  and 
tenderness  no  woman  could  surpass.  All  this  time 
he  never  said  a  word  about  religion,  although  we 
knew  he  carried  a  New  Testament  in  his  pocket, 
and  chaffed  him  a  good  deal  about  it. 

"One  night,  it  was  near  Christmas,  we  were  all 
together  in  the  shack,  and  most  of  us  pretty  dull,  for 
we  were  thinking  of  friends  and  homes  far  away. 
Suddenly  Taradise  Lost'  offered  to  sing  to  us.  At 
any  ordinary  time  his  offer  would  have  been  received 
with  shouts  of  derision.  The  little  man  whipped 
out  a  Sankey's  hymnbook,  and  began  to  sing  in  a 
sweet,  clear  tenor,  'Shall  we  gather  at  the  River?' 
At  the  second  verse  some  one  heaved  a  boot  at  him, 
but  the  little  man  went  on  with  a  smile,  and  at  the 
third  verse  we  were  actually  joining  in  the  chorus. 
Then  he  pulled  out  his  Testament,  and  without  ask- 
ing anybody's  leave  began  to  read  us  the  beautiful 
story  of  the  birth  of  Jesus.  It  sounded  as  if  we  had 
never  heard  it  before,  and  somehow  the  recollection 
of  the  star-shine  outside,  and  the  lonely  forest,  and 


42        A    PROPHET    IN   BABYLON 

our  warm  shack  in  the  lonely  waste,  made  Bethlehem 
and  the  watching  Shepherds  seem  real.  Then  he 
read  the  death  of  Jesus,  and  with  such  simple  pathos 
that  I  know  my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  I  was 
not  the  only  one.  When  he  had  done  he  began  to 
speak  to  us.  I  can't  reproduce  his  speech,  but  some 
of  it  I  shall  never  forget. 

"  Tm  just  one  of  yourselves,  lads/  he  said,  'and 
not  a  bit  better  than  you,  but  I've  got  a  Friend  some 
of  you  haven't  got,  and  my  Friend  is  Him  about 
whom  I've  been  reading  to  you  to-night.  I  know 
you  wonder  why  I  ever  came  here,  and  I'll  tell  you. 
I  was  a  wicked  lad,  and  broke  my  mother's  heart,  as 
some  of  you  have  done.  One  day  this  Friend  of 
mine  took  hold  of  me,  and  said :  "You've  just  got  to 
follow  Me.  You've  been  foolish  long  enough,  but 
now  I've  found  you  and  I  don't  intend  to  let  you 
go.  But  you've  got  to  do  something  for  Me,  too. 
You've  got  to  go  to  the  wickedest  sort  of  place  you 
can  find,  and  help  men  to  be  good  the  best  way  you 
know."  So  I  said :  "That's  only  fair,  and  I'll  do  my 
best,"  and  so  I  came  here.  I  don't  know  books,  and 
I  never  shall,  but  I  know  that  it's  wiser  to  be  good 
than  bad,  and  you  know  it,  too.  I  can't  talk  to  you 
like  the  preachers  can,  and  maybe  you  wouldn't 
listen  to  me  if  I  could.  But  I  tell  you  that  the  same 
Friend  that  found  me  is  here  to  be  friends  with  you, 
if  you'll  let  Him,  and  the  moment  you'll  try  to  live 
straight,  lads,  that  moment  you'll  find  Him  help- 
ing you.' 


PARADISE    LOST  43 

"  'Paradise  Lost'  didn't  get  jeered  at  after  that 
night.  He'd  won  out.  He  went  about  doing  good, 
and  that  appeared  to  be  the  only  religion  he  knew, 
and  it  was  about  all  we  wanted,  or  were  capable 
of  understanding. 

"Such  religion  as  I  have,  I  got  from  that  little 
man.  Christ  came  back  to  me  in  him.  He  taught 
me  that  the  only  way  of  really  helping  your  brother 
man  to  a  real  faith  is  by  living  as  though  your  own 
faith  were  real. 

"And  now  you  see  my  point.  You  know,  Gaunt, 
I  wouldn't  grieve  you  wilfully,  but  since  you've 
asked  me  a  question,  I'll  answer  it  honestly.  You've 
not  helped  me  in  the  way  you've  indicated.  You've 
fed  my  mind,  and  I  am  grateful — but  my  soul,  no. 
The  only  man  who  ever  touched  my  soul  was  that 
little  preacher  in  the  lumber  camp.  He  did  it  be- 
cause he  lived  like  Christ,  and  I  don't  believe  any 
man  will  ever  reach  the  soul  of  another  man  until 
he  lives  like  Christ.  Sermons  and  theologies  don't 
count — it's  the  life  and  nothing  else." 

Gaunt  sat  with  bowed  head. 

"I  should  hate  to  think  I  had  wounded  you,"  said 
Palmer. 

"I  need  to  be  wounded,"  said  Gaunt,  in  a  low 
voice.  "It's  surgery — surgery  that  perhaps  may 
save  me." 

Palmer  wrung  his  friend's  hand,  and  silently  left 
the  room. 


IV 
STORM   SIGNALS 

THE  Sunday-morning  service  at  Mayfield 
Avenue  Church  had  just  concluded,  and 
it  was  evident  that  something  unusual  had 
happened.  Groups  of  people  stood  in  the  aisles  and 
vestibules,  engaged  in  eager  conversation.  Deacon 
Roberts  wore  his  most  dangerous  smile — it  was 
characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  smiled  most  when 
he  was  most  annoyed.  Hocking,  Small,  and  the 
other  deacons  had  retired  to  the  vestry,  the  door  of 
which  was  shut.  Every  one  knew  that  they  were 
in  conclave.  One  lady,  Mrs.  Somerset,  who  enjoyed 
the  reputation  of  being  the  best-dressed  woman  in 
the  church,  was  observed  bending  over  the  book- 
locker  in  her  pew  with  a  very  flushed  face.  It  was 
evident  that  she  was  removing  her  books.  When 
Margaret  Gaunt  came  down  the  aisle  Mrs.  Somerset 
moved  toward  her  with  peremptory  eagerness,  and 
began  to  address  her  in  a  loud  tone,  without  so  much 
as  offering  her  her  hand.  Courtesy  had  never  been 
Mrs.  Somerset's  strong  point,  and  she  made  no  pre- 
tence of  it  now. 

"I  wish  you  good-morning,  Mrs.  Gaunt,"  she  said, 
with  an  angry  nod;  "it  will  be  some  time  before  we 
meet  again." 


STORM    SIGNALS  45 

"Why,  how's  that?"  said  Margaret.  "I  thought 
you  were  not  going  to  California  this  winter." 

"Nor  am  I.  I  expect  to  be  in  New  York  all  the 
winter.  But  I  don't  expect  to  enter  this  church 
again." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Somerset,"  said  Margaret,  in  her 
sweetest  manner,  "you  surely  don't  mean  that. 
Why,  what  has  happened  ?" 

"If  you  don't  know,  it  would  be  no  use  my  trying 
to  inform  you." 

Margaret  flushed  in  spite  of  her  self-control.  It 
had  been  one  of  her  chief  duties  as  a  minister's  wife 
to  cultivate  self-control,  and  she  had  needed  it  more 
in  her  relations  toward  Mrs.  Somerset  than  toward 
any  other  person  in  the  church.  For  Mrs.  Somerset 
was  one  of  those  unhappily  constituted  women  who 
are  only  able  to  believe  in  their  own  self-importance 
by  assuring  themselves  of  the  insignificance  of  other 
people.  She  was  by  no  means  a  vulgar  person,  but 
the  possession  of  wealth  had  exaggerated  her  self- 
esteem  to  a  degree  that  was  intolerable.  She  could 
be  flattered  and  cajoled  into  acts  of  considerable 
generosity,  but  generosity  was  neither  indigenous 
nor  spontaneous  in  her.  She  was  the  sort  of  woman 
of  whom  it  is  said,  "It's  well  to  keep  upon  her  right 
side";  which  usually  means  that  she  is  a  kind  of 
fractious  child  who  must  be  bribed  by  sweetmeats 
to  be  good.  Put  her  at  the  head  of  things,  and  no 
one  could  be  sweeter  tempered;  ignore  her,  and  no 
one  could  be  more  spiteful.  And  so,  although  many 


46        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

fitter  persons  could  have  been  found,  Mrs.  Somerset 
had  long  reigned  supreme  in  church  clubs  and  sim- 
ilar organisations,  and  had  even  posed  as  an  expert 
on  literature  of  which  she  knew  nothing,  and  on  the 
"New  Theology,"  of  which  she  knew  less. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  not  in  the  least  aware  of  any  reason 
for  your  extraordinary  conduct,"  said  Margaret — 
"unless,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of  delicate  malice, 
"you've  just  discovered  some  frightful  heresy  in  my 
husband's  theology,  which  contradicts  your  own." 

"Oh,  it's  not  theology,  you  know  that  very  well," 
she  retorted,  with  an  indignant  rattle  of  her  big  gold 
bracelets.  "I  believe  in  the  New  Theology,  and  all 
that,  as  you  very  well  know.  But  when  your  hus- 
band tells  us,  as  he  told  us  this  morning,  that  wealthy 
people  are  usually  selfish,  complacent,  and  unsym- 
pathetic: that  they  don't  try  to  know  the  reality  of 
life  among  the  poor,  and  all  that  kind  of  nonsense,  as 
if  it  were  my  business  to  go  slumming,  I  for  one  feel 
insulted.  If  he  loves  the  poor  so  much,  he'd  better 
go  to  them.  Certainly  I  shall  not  stay  to  have  them 
brought  to  me." 

"And  did  my  husband  really  say  all  those  dread- 
ful things,  Mrs.  Somerset?  If  he  did  I  must  have 
been  asleep,  for  I  never  heard  them.  I  will  tell  you 
what  he  did  say — or  what  I  thought  he  said,  since 
your  hearing  seems  to  have  been  more  acute  than 
mine.  He  said  the  tendency  of  wealth  was  toward 
self-complacency,  which  is  true  enough.  He  said 
we  were  responsible  for  the  poor,  since  the  system 


STORM    SIGNALS  47 

of  life  we  support  creates  them — which  surely  you 
won't  deny.  And  he  did  say,  I  admit,  that  a  church 
which  was  a  social  club,  with  every  one  in  it  of  one 
class,  existing  for  its  own  gratification,  was  not  ex- 
actly the  kind  of  church  Jesus  Christ  came  to  create. 
In  what  way  can  such  statements  be  an  insult  to  you  ? 
I'd  really  be  glad  to  know/' 

"Oh,  it  wasn't  that  altogether,"  she  replied,  with 
the  usual  feminine  skill  in  evading  the  point.  "It 
was  his  manner,  the  way  in  which  he  said  it.  It  was 
positively  offensive.  And  I  know  he  looked  straight 
at  me,  as  if  he  meant  me.  And  then  there  was  that 
dreadful  story  about  a  lumber  camp  at  the  end  of 
the  sermon — drunken  men  and  Sankey's  hymns, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing — so  different  from  his 
usual  sermons,  it  was  outrageous,  as  if  that  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  us.  I  really  didn't  think  your  hus- 
band could  be  so  coarse.  His  own  sense  might  have 
told  him  it  was  out  of  place.  Why,  he  quite  ranted. 
And  I've  never  been  accustomed  to  such  goings-on. 'r 

"And  you  never  heard  of  a  lumber  camp  in  your 
life  before  ?  Why,  how  strange !  I  always  thought 
your  husband  made  his  fortune  out  of  lumber.  I'm 
almost  sure  you  told  me  so." 

Margaret  could  not  for  her  life  have  resisted  such 
a  palpable  hit. 

But  it  produced  no  effect  except  to  increase  the 
wrath  of  Mrs.  Somerset,  who  with  an  angry  ges- 
ture gathered  her  books  together,  and  swept  out 
of  the  church. 


48        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

As  Mrs.  Somerset  left  the  church,  another  of  the 
church  ladies  of  a  very  different  order  approached 
Margaret.  She  was  a  white-haired,  tall  woman  of 
very  quiet  manners,  and  retiring  disposition.  She 
had  had  some  great  trouble  in  her  early  married 
life,  of  which  no  one  knew  the  exact  details.  What- 
ever it  was  it  had  broken  her  life,  and  left  her  poor. 
She  and  Margaret  had  never  met  except  in  casual 
ways.  But  Margaret,  with  her  clear  judgment,  had 
long  ago  perceived  Mrs.  Holcombe's  worth.  More 
than  once  she  had  wished  she  knew  her  better:  for 
in  the  calm,  gracious  face  of  the  older  woman  there 
was  the  rare  attractiveness  which  comes  only  from 
sorrowful  experiences  which  have  been  spiritualized 
into  disciplines,  from  obscure  Calvaries  out  of  whose 
torture  and  darkness  the  soul  has  attained  a  better 
resurrection. 

"Will  you  pardon  me,  if  I  confess  that  I  heard  all 
that  Mrs.  Somerset  said,  and  I  don't  agree  in  a  word 
of  it?"  she  began. 

"I'm  only  too  delighted  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said 
Margaret. 

"I  heard  also  every  word  your  husband  said,  and 
I  drank  it  in,  as  one  long  athirst  who  has  found  the 
waters.  I  have  waited  seven  years  for  this  morn- 
ing's sermon.  I  think  I  always  knew  it  would  come 
— at  least  I  always  believed  it  would.  I  should  have 
left  the  church  long  ago  except  for  that  belief.  But 
I  knew  that  your  husband  had  not  only  a  brilliant 
mind,  but  a  big  heart,  and  I  felt  that  some  day  he 


STORM    SIGNALS  49 

must  let  his  heart  speak.  His  heart  spoke  this  morn- 
ing. Oh,  encourage  him  to  let  it  go  on  speaking. 
God  has  some  great  work  for  him  to  do,  but  he'll 
only  do  it  by  letting  his  heart  guide  him.  Perhaps 
I  ought  not  to  say  these  things  to  you,  but  when  I 
saw  how  you  were  being  grieved  by  the  foolish 
anger  of  the  lady  who  has  just  gone  out,  I  felt  I 
must  speak." 

The  words  were  so  lovingly  spoken,  with  such 
sincerity  and  deep  feeling,  that  for  the  moment  Mar- 
garet's strong  self-control  forsook  her.  Her  eyes 
filled  with  sudden  tears. 

"I  can  only  thank  you,"  she  said,  "though  I  don't 
quite  know  whether  I  take  your  meaning.  Won't 
you  come  and  see  me?  I'm  very  sorry  not  to  have 
known  you  better." 

"Oh,  it's  not  your  fault,"  she  answered.  "I've  not 
wished  to  be  known.  I  lead  a  very  quiet  life,  with 
only  my  memories  for  company.  As  I've  grown 
older  I  fear  I  have  grown  less  and  less  inclined  to 
meet  people,  which  is  not  quite  a  right  state  of 
feeling.  You  get  to  live  almost  entirely  in  the  past 
when  you  live  alone.  The  past  is  all  that  seems  real ; 
the  present  is  a  kind  of  dream.  But  to-day  I've  felt 
for  the  first  time  for  many  years  as  if  I  were  com- 
ing out  of  the  past.  The  shadows  are  melting,  and 
it  has  come  to  me  that  there  may  yet  be  something 
left  for  me  to  do  before  I  die.  I  shall  be  very  glad 
to  know  you  better,  if  you'll  take  me  just  as  I  am,  a 
woman  growing  old,  whose  life  has  had  many  sor- 


50        A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

rows,  and  has  learned  the  hard  lesson  of  resigna- 
tion and  renunciation." 

Margaret's  heart  went  out  to  her.  And  in  the 
rush  of  warm  tenderness  which  she  felt  for  this 
lonely  woman,  there  was  mingled  a  sharp  bitter 
of  reproach.  Here  was  a  woman  whom  no  one  had 
treated  as  of  much  account,  Margaret  among  the 
number.  It  was  women  like  Mrs.  Somerset  who 
had  moved  in  the  high  places  of  the  church,  de- 
manded attention,  absorbed  notice,  and  all  the  time 
this  woman  with  her  sorrow,  and  her  character  puri- 
fied by  sorrow,  had  stood  by,  lonely  and  unloved. 

"I  shall  be  gladder  than  I  can  say  to  have  you  call 
upon  me."  But  the  phrase  seemed  too  formal.  "To 
have  you  for  my  friend,"  she  added. 

"Then  I  will  come." 

And  at  that  moment  there  began  one  of  those  pure 
and  deep  friendships  which  are  only  possible  be- 
tween persons  of  absolute  sincerity. 

His  heart  had  spoken — Mrs.  Holcombe  had  used 
the  right  phrase  in  describing  the  sermon  which 
John  Gaunt  preached  that  morning. 

It  was  a  sermon  so  unlike  anything  that  had  pre- 
ceded it,  that  it  was  little  wonder  if  it  had  startled 
and  offended  his  hearers.  There  had  been  none  of 
the  usual  literary  allusions  in  it,  not  a  single  quota- 
tion from  favourite  authors,  not  even  a  phrase  that 
could  be  accounted  brilliant.  The  omissions  were 
the  more  remarkable  because  he  had  of  late  devoted 
his  Sunday  mornings  to  a  criticism  of  Browning's 


STORM    SIGNALS  51 

philosophy  of  life.  These  addresses  had  excited  un- 
usual interest.  Students  had  brought  note-books 
with  them,  and  the  members  of  various  literary  clubs 
had  been  attracted  by  expositions  which  were  un- 
doubtedly competent  and  scholarly.  Gaunt  had 
delivered  them  with  a  view  to  publication.  He  was, 
in  fact,  already  engaged  in  making  a  book  out  of 
them. 

But  this  morning  the  note-books  were  unused. 
It  was  soon  evident  that  nothing  was  to  be  said 
about  Browning.  He  read  a  series  of  passages  from 
the  Gospels,  in  each  one  of  which  the  Master  ap- 
peared as  surrounded  by  publicans  and  sinners. 

"Who  were  these  people?"  he  asked.  "Quite 
clearly  they  were  not  reputable  people,  for  every 
one  was  surprised  that  Christ  should  associate  with 
them.  The  general  opinion  was  that  Jesus  had 
fallen  into  bad  company.  But  what  do  we  mean  by 
bad  company?  We  usually  mean  vicious  people, 
and  we  think  of  them  as  a  class  by  themselves.  But 
vice  is  more  equally  distributed  than  we  suppose, 
is  not  confined  to  classes,  and  has  no  exclusive  brand. 

"Lustfulness  and  intemperance  are  vices,  but  so 
also  are  bad  temper,  meanness,  selfishness,  and  in- 
ordinate pride.  Jesus  seems  to  have  thought  selfish- 
ness a  much  worse  thing  than  folly.  The  worst 
people  He  knew  were  those  whom  the  world  thought 
the  best.  At  all  events  He  spoke  to  them  His  most 
dreadful  words  of  rebuke.  But  to  the  other  people, 
who  were  foolish  and  wicked,  but  not  unkind,  He 


52        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

told  tender  stories  about  love  and  forgiveness.  He 
did  it  not  once  nor  twice,  but  uniformly,  so  that  He 
came  to  be  known  as  the  Friend  of  publicans  and 
sinners.  The  good  people,  of  course,  used  the 
term  in  derision,  but  Jesus  accepted  it  as  a  compli- 
ment. 

"Was  Jesus  wrong?  Of  course  we  dare  not  say 
that  He  was  wrong,  though  many  of  us  may  think 
He  was.  In  either  case  He  paid  for  His  temerity 
with  the  Cross.  For  it  was  the  good  people  who  put 
Him  to  death.  The  publicans  and  sinners  had  no 
hand  in  the  world's  greatest  tragedy.  They  could 
not  have  crucified  their  Friend.  But  to  the  good 
people  he  was  not  a  friend  but  an  enemy,  and  the 
chief  reason  why  they  hated  Him  was  because  they 
knew  that  He  saw  through  their  pretence  of  good- 
ness. 

"So  then  it  seems  that  if  we  would  imitate  Christ, 
as  we  say  we  wish  to  do,  we  have  to  find  our  friends 
among  the  despised  people  whom  He  loved.  The 
publican  and  sinner — do  we  know  any  persons  an- 
swering to  this  description?  Do  we  wish  to  know 
them  ?  Do  we  ever  think  of  them  ?  Have  they  ever 
entered  this  church,  or  would  we  welcome  them  if 
they  did?" 

If  Gaunt  had  stopped  at  that  point,  there  would 
have  been  little  sensation.  So  far  he  had  only  made 
general  statements,  and  religious  congregations  are 
too  well  used  to  such  statements  to  realize  any  per- 
sonal implications  in  them.  And,  as  he  spoke,  he 


STORM    SIGNALS  53 

was  perfectly  aware  of  this.  He  knew,  not  indeed 
for  the  first  time,  but  for  the  first  time  with  vivid 
realisation,  that  the  Jesus  of  whom  he  spoke  was  to 
his  hearers  no  more  than  the  symbol  of  a  sentiment, 
a  Jesus  of  romance,  with  romantic  ideas  of  love  and 
justice,  which  no  one  supposed  capable  of  interpre- 
tation into  terms  of  ordinary  conduct.  It  was  even 
as  Jesus  had  foreseen  it  would  be  through  the  ages : 
men  would  praise  His  words,  but  would  not  do  the 
things  which  He  commended  them.  An  anguish  of 
disdain  seized  upon  Gaunt,  disdain  in  part  for  him- 
self that  he  had  been  so  little  in  accord  with  the 
truths  he  had  just  uttered,  and  in  part  with  his 
hearers  that  they  were  manifestly  pleased  with 
truths  which  ought  to  have  covered  them  with 
shame.  For  he  knew — his  long  experience  taught 
him — that  if  he  were  to  stop  with  the  picture  he  had 
drawn  of  the  Friend  of  publican  and  sinners,  not 
one  of  his  hearers  would  be  moved  to  any  novel  act 
of  conduct.  He  foresaw  that  they  would  thank  him 
for  his  sermon,  praise  it,  say  they  had  "enjoyed" 
it — that  dreadful  phrase  which  puts  the  seal  of 
entire  futility  on  preaching !  His  very  soul  sickened 
in  him  at  the  prospect.  It  came  to  him  in  a  flash 
of  blinding  light  that  if  ever  he  was  to  be  sincere, 
he  must  be  so  now. 

He  stood  silent  for  several  moments.  His  face 
was  pale,  but  it  was  a  kind  of  pallor  that  had  a 
strange  element  of  brightness  in  it.  It  suggested 
moonlight  on  snow. 


54        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

His  hands  were  folded  before  him,  his  figure  was 
rigid. 

The  silence  grew:  it  spread  like  a  wave.  Then 
there  were  uneasy  movements  and  rustlings  in  the 
pews.  Roberts  sat  very  upright  with  lips  half  open. 

And  then  at  last  Gaunt  spoke,  but  the  note  of 
challenging  disdain  had  gone  out  of  his  voice.  He 
spoke  quietly,  but  each  word  was  surcharged  with 
intensity.  And  through  all  there  throbbed  the  note 
of  pity — it  had  the  effect  of  a  sob  in  a  singer's  voice 
— pity  for  himself  that  he  had  failed  so  long  in  his 
highest  duty,  and  for  others  that  they  did  not  see 
what  he  beheld.  He  no  longer  drew  a  picture  of 
something  that  happened  centuries  ago :  he  made  his 
hearers  feel  that  the  same  divine  Teacher,  who  had 
dealt  so  tenderly  with  sinners  and  so  rigorously  with 
the  proud  and  hard,  stood  at  that  very  moment  in 
the  midst  of  this  conventionally  Christian  congre- 
gation. And  then  he  told  the  story  of  Palmer's 
lumber-camp  hero,  much  as  Palmer  had  related  it 
to  him.  He  pictured  this  weak  little  man,  this  de- 
spised "Paradise  Lost,"  with  his  ignorance  of  books 
and  theologies,  nursing  drunken  men  through  their 
nights  of  horror,  indefatigably  tender  in  his  minis- 
tration to  those  who  derided  him,  sustained  by  one 
beautiful  impulse,  that  he  must  needs  do  what  his 
unseen  Friend  had  done  and  bade  him  do.  "Here 
is  the  true  Christian,"  he  cried.  "Nay,  not  the 
Christian,  but  the  Christ,  one  whose  shoe's  latchet 
I  am  unworthy  to  unloose,  one  whom  you  and  I, 


STORM    SIGNALS  55 

living  complacent  lives  of  luxury,  shall  envy  when 
the  judgment  comes.  Your  religion  and  mine  has 
hitherto  been  only  a  gratification — never  a  sacrifice. 
It  has  been  a  sorry  travesty  of  religion.  It  will 
never  become  a  reality  till  it  becomes  a  sacrifice." 

Words  were  given  to  him  in  that  hour.  He  who 
had  for  seven  years  read  his  little  careful  essays  to 
an  eclectic  congregation,  suddenly  spoke  with  lips 
of  flame.  During  the  latter  part  of  his  address  he 
seemed  utterly  unconscious  both  of  himself  and  his 
audience;  and  so  he  did  not  see  the  angry  flush  on 
Mrs.  Somerset's  ample  cheeks,  nor  the  pale  dismay 
on  many  other  faces.  One  face  was  whiter  than  his 
own:  it  was  Palmer's.  The  moment  the  address 
concluded  Palmer  left  the  church. 

As  if  by  preconcerted  signal,  at  the  close  of  the 
final  hymn  the  deacons  gathered  at  the  vestry  door. 

Not  one  spoke  to  him.  But  as  he  passed  the  door 
on  his  departure  from  the  church,  he  heard  a  mur- 
mur of  voices  behind  that  closed  door.  He  knew 
that  he  was  the  subject  of  their  discussion. 


DR.   JORDAN 

PEOPLE  who  suppose  that  a  human  character 
can  be  altered  radically  by  a  sudden  emo- 
tional experience,  however  intense,  do  not 
understand  human  nature.  Such  an  experience  ren- 
ders character  fluid;  into  what  shape  the  molten  ele- 
ments will  flow  depends  on  the  fibre  of  a  man's  will. 
Many  persons,  besides  St.  Paul,  have  had  their 
visions  on  the  way  to  Damascus;  some  of  them,  in 
the  cool  gray  light  of  the  next  morning,  have  dis- 
missed them  as  hallucinations;  some  have  believed, 
but  disobeyed;  some  have  obeyed  for  a  time,  but 
in  the  end  have  found  the  pressure  of  the  world  too 
strong  for  them.  Deliverance  from  an  old  and 
accustomed  mode  of  life  is  never  easy  and  rarely 
rapid.  When  we  pull  a  plant  up  by  the  roots  we  are 
astonished  to  discover  how  many  fibres  it  has,  and 
with  what  tenacity  a  very  small  fibre  will  cling  to 
the  vein  of  earth  in  which  it  has  laboriously  estab- 
lished itself.  Moreover,  we  soon  find  that  it  needs  a 
delicate  and  strong  hand  for  the  work;  we  must 
slowly  and  gently  loosen  the  roots,  for  if  we  are 
rough  and  violent  in  our  methods  we  kill  that  which 
we  meant  to  save. 

56 


DR.    JORDAN  57 

Gaunt  had  experienced  a  powerful  emotion;  a  new 
dynamic  had  been  introduced  into  his  life.  During 
the  whole  of  that  memorable  Sunday  he  had  literally 
glowed  and  thrilled  with  its  novel  force.  But  when 
Monday  morning  dawned  physical  conditions  began 
to  assert  themselves.  He  woke  with  a  leaden  pres- 
sure on  the  brain,  a  languor  in  each  limb,  the  famil- 
iar symptoms  of  nervous  exhaustion.  His  elation 
had  died  down  into  despondence. 

It  was  very  early  when  he  woke — that  most  dole- 
ful hour  in  great  cities  when  the  day  labours  to  be 
born,  and  the  city  seems  to  turn  on  its  uneasy  bed, 
reluctant  to  resume  its  toils.  He  heard  far  off  the 
hooting  sirens  in  the  harbour,  those  harsh  voices, 
raucous  and  persistent,  which  goad  weary  men  to 
new  labour.  He  watched  the  slow  diffusion  of  cold, 
gray  light  in  the  clouded  sky,  and  the  gusty,  uneven 
wind  seemed  to  him  like  the  sighing  of  defeated 
angels.  It  was  the  hour  when,  for  imaginative  men, 
thought  is  most  introspective  and  reminiscent.  As 
he  lay  quiet,  watching  the  sombre  dawn,  his  whole 
past  life  began  to  march  before  him  in  a  series  of 
rapidly  unfolded  pictures.  His  early  life  and  strug- 
gles, its  mistakes  and  errors,  the  humiliations  he 
had  endured  through  ignorance  and  lack  of  man- 
ners, his  laborious  evolution  from  the  country  lad 
into  the  scholar  and  the  gentleman — he  recalled  all, 
he  relived  all.  He  figured  it  to  himself  as  a  steep 
and  shining  mountain,  with  steps  of  glass,  up  which 
he  had  toiled  with  remorseless  patience.  With  what 


58        A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

superb  confidence  he  had  gone  on,  in  spite  of  fail- 
ures and  rebuffs !  And  he  had  arrived;  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that.  He  had  gained  the  summit,  where 
people  of  benignant  features  moved,  and  met  him 
with  a  smiling  welcome.  And  then,  with  a  swift 
pang  of  self-pity,  he  perceived  himself  slipping  back- 
ward on  those  stairs  of  glass,  and  the  features  of 
those  benignant  people  on  the  summit  were  averted 
from  him  in  cold  scorn  and  mockery. 

One  thought  prevailed  over  all  others  at  that 
moment,  the  thought  of  Margaret.  What  did  she 
really  think  ?  He  knew  her  loyal,  but  could  she  give 
him  that  inner  sympathy  which  he  most  needed  at 
this  hour?  She  would  stand  by  him,  of  course; 
that  was  a  thing  beyond  doubt.  But  if  his  whole  life 
was  to  be  changed,  if  he  were  now  to  enter  on  a 
new  struggle,  compared  with  which  all  these  early 
struggles  were  a  pastime,  would  her  heart  be  with 
him?  He  recalled  their  life  together.  It  had  begun 
so  beautifully,  with  all  that  exquisite  tenderness  of 
passion  of  which  poets  have  sung.  He  recalled  the 
first  time  that  he  had  kissed  her — it  was  on  a  winter 
evening,  as  they  trod  together  a  path  of  sparkling 
snow  in  a  wood,  on  their  way  home  from  skating. 
The  rest  of  the  party  had  gone  on;  he  and  she  were 
alone,  and  he  had  drawn  her  to  him  and  kissed  her 
cold  cheek.  For  a  long  time  after  that  he  had 
fancifully  loved  to  kiss  her  cheek  when  it  was  cold. 
During  the  first  months  of  their  married  life  much 
of  his  romantic  and  idyllic  tenderness  had  remained. 


DR.    JORDAN  59 

Then  it  had  seemed  as  though  the  practical  ele- 
ments in  her  character  had  gradually  displaced  the 
idyllic.  There  were  fewer  occasions  of  tenderness, 
as  life  became  fuller  of  duties  for  each  of  them. 
At  first  he  resented  her  absorption  in  household 
duties ;  then  he  became  reconciled  to  what  seemed  an 
inevitable  condition  of  life.  He  withdrew  more  and 
more  into  himself,  and  without  observing  the  stages 
of  his  process,  came  more  and  more  to  shut  her  out 
of  his  intellectual  life.  She  had  never  complained; 
she  had  been  wiser  if  she  had.  She  also  had  ap- 
peared to  acquiesce  in  conditions  which  seemed 
inevitable,  and  had  developed  into  a  very  practical 
woman,  with  a  hundred  daily  tasks  to  absorb  her. 
And  now  Gaunt  saw  with  dismay  that  he  had  lost 
the  clue  to  his  wife's  nature.  He  did  not  know  her 
real  mind.  He  was  about  to  expose  her  to  a  tre- 
mendous ordeal,  and  he  had  nothing  to  guide  him 
as  to  her  real  attitude  towards  it. 

At  that  moment  his  reverie  was  broken  by  the 
ringing  of  the  telephone  which  he  kept  beside  his 
bed.  Dr.  Jordan  wanted  to  see  him  at  nine  o'clock. 
He  rose  wearily,  and  began  to  dress. 

Dr.  Jordan  was  a  man  just  past  the  middle  point 
of  life,  the  minister  of  a  neighbouring  church.  He 
was  clean-shaved,  with  a  humorous,  but  firm  mouth, 
bright  shrewd  eyes,  a  good  forehead,  and  thin  iron- 
gray  hair.  He  was  a  man  of  no  great  intellectual 
parts,  who  never  pretended  to  be  anything  but  a 
mediocre  preacher.  He  professed  a  mild  kind  of 


60        A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

heterodoxy,  but  he  really  took  very  little  interest 
in  theology.  All  his  energies  were  devoted  to  the 
management  of  his  church,  and  in  this  art  he  was 
a  past-master.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  how 
to  organize  the  diverse  elements  of  a  church  into 
a  harmonious  whole.  He  had  an  instinct  which 
almost  amounted  to  genius  for  comprehending  the 
exact  limits  of  men,  the  direction  of  their  thoughts, 
the  scale  of  their  preferences,  the  direction  in  which 
they  wished  to  move.  Thus,  when  he  announced  any 
particular  policy,  it  was  so  nicely  timed  that  his 
people  recognized  in  it  the  exposition  of  their  own 
designs,  and  justly  gave  him  credit  for  wise  leader- 
ship. He  did  not  pretend  to  any  very  lofty  views 
of  human  nature.  He  was  fond  of  quoting  Luther's 
despondent  axiom  that  "You  must  take  men  as  they 
are,  you  cannot  change  their  characters."  In  times 
of  dispute  and  difficulty  he  was  fertile  in  compro- 
mise, but  his  compromises  usually  had  so  much  prac- 
tical wisdom  in  them  that  no  one  ever  thought  of 
accusing  him  of  lack  of  principle.  It  was  by  arts 
such  as  these  that  he  had  maintained  for  many  years, 
without  great  intellectual  gifts,  a  position  of  influ- 
ence and  authority  in  which  such  gifts  are  com- 
monly considered  indispensable.  Thus  he  was  a 
man  generally  trusted  and  obeyed,  sagacious  and 
experienced;  a  man  of  suave  manners  and  smooth 
speech,  who  rode  easily  upon  the  waves  of  life,  and 
knew  better  than  to  expose  himself  to  inconvenient 
tempests  when  safe  harbours  were  accessible.  Gaunt 


DR.    JORDAN  61 

had  had  much  pleasant  fellowship  with  him.  He 
was  a  welcome  comrade  on  the  golf-links,  a  pleasant 
guest  at  the  dinner  table,  a  shrewd  man  of  the 
world,  viewing  most  aspects  of  life  in  a  spirit  of 
lucid  irony;  but  scarcely  the  man  to  whom  any  one 
would  go  in  any  deep  spiritual  emergency. 

As  Gaunt  went  downstairs  to  meet  him,  he 
guessed  the  object  of  his  visit.  No  doubt  Jordan 
had  heard  something  about  the  sensation  caused  by 
the  sermon  of  the  previous  morning.  He  had  prob- 
ably come  to  talk  it  over. 

Jordan  met  him  with  his  usual  humorous  smile, 
and  at  once  proceeded  to  the  business  which  had 
made  him  so  early  a  visitor. 

"So  you've  been  fluttering  the  dovecotes,  I  hear. 
Have  you  seen  the  morning  papers?" 

"No,  I  have  not.  You  don't  mean  to  say  there's 
anything  about  me  in  them?" 

"Read  them.    Here  they  are." 

He  pointed  to  the  leading  New  York  papers  which 
lay  upon  the  table. 

Gaunt  took  them  up,  and  his  eye  at  once  caught 
the  headline,  "Sensational  Utterances  by  a  New 
York  Minister."  He  perceived  immediately  that  he 
was  the  minister,  and  that  at  least  one-third  of  the 
report  of  his  utterances  was  totally  inaccurate.  But 
he  soon  discovered,  that  in  spite  of  these  inaccu- 
racies, whoever  had  written  the  report  had  written 
sympathetically.  If  here  and  there  were  garbled 
phrases  which  he  was  sure  he  had  not  used,  there 


62        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

were  others  which  he  recognized,  only  they  seemed 
much  more  extreme  in  print  than  they  did  in  speech. 
Three  of  the  reports  were  alike  in  the  sympathy 
which  they  manifested,  one  of  the  three  going  so  far 
as  to  applaud  him  as  a  prophet.  The  fourth  was 
openly  hostile  and  rancorous.  It  was  composed  of 
the  worst  kind  of  flippant  newspaper  wit — clever, 
ironical,  jeering.  "We  await  developments,"  it  con- 
cluded. "We  are  curious  to  know  what  Dr.  Gaunt's 
people  have  to  say  of  their  pastor.  He  has  used 
the  pulpit  as  a  Coward's  Castle,  to  make  accusations 
which  he  very  well  knew  could  not  be  publicly  con- 
tradicted. It  was  an  act  of  insolence  as  well  as 
cowardice.  We  can  hardly  suppose  that  a  church 
with  the  reputation  of  Mayfield  Avenue  will  pa- 
tiently endure  this  new  and  odious  kind  of  Sunday 
Vaudeville." 

"Well/'  said  Jordan,  "what  do  you  think  of  it? 
You  seem  to  have  got  yourself  into  the  most  unholy 
kind  of  mess." 

"Oh,  the  reports  are  right  enough  in  the  main," 
said  Gaunt — "except  the  last.  That  is  obviously 
exaggerated  and  malicious." 

"It's  not  a  question  now  of  accuracy  or  inaccu- 
racy," said  Jordan,  gravely.  "The  mischief's  done. 
If  every  line  in  these  paragraphs  was  false,  it 
would  make  no  difference.  You  know  the  old 
proverb,  'A  lie  runs  round  the  world  while  Truth  is 
putting  on  its  boots/  The  question  is  what  do  you 
intend  to  do  about  it?" 


DR.    JORDAN  63 

"What  would  you  have  me  do  ?  I  can't  pretend  I 
didn't  say  these  things.  I  did,  and  I  meant  them.  I 
still  mean  them.  Of  course  I  intend  to  stand  by 
them." 

"Come,  come,  my  dear  fellow,  you're  excited  and 
out  of  sorts.  You've  been  running  down  nervously 
a  long  time.  I've  seen  it,  if  you  haven't.  Now  sit 
down,  and  let  us  talk  the  whole  thing  over  quietly. 
Any  man  may  make  a  mistake,  but  the  only  mis- 
take that  is  irretrievable  is  persisting  in  a  mistake." 

"But  I've  not  make  a  mistake,"  said  Gaunt,  with 
a  vehement  gesture.  "I've  spoken  truth." 

"Oh,  of  course,  we'll  grant  that,"  said  Jordan, 
soothingly.  "You'll  excuse  my  saying  it,  but  any 
fool  can  speak  what  he  calls  the  truth,  and  accom- 
plish more  harm  by  doing  it  than  if  he  told  lies. 
'All  things  are  lawful,  but  all  things  are  not  expe- 
dient'— you  know  who  said  it.  Besides,  all  truth 
is  relative." 

At  that  moment  Margaret  entered  the  library. 
The  conversation  ceased,  and  both  men  rose. 
Gaunt's  first  impulse  was  to  conceal  the  nature  of 
the  conversation  from  his  wife.  Then  suddenly  the 
recollection  of  his  early  morning  reverie  came  back 
to  him.  He  had  blamed  himself  for  shutting  Mar- 
garet out  of  his  life,  and  at  the  same  time  had 
yearned  for  her  sympathy  in  the  inner  matters  of  his 
life.  Here  was  the  decisive  test  of  whether  she 
was  indeed  capable  of  that  sympathy.  His  eye 
rested  on  her  with  more  of  that  early  tender  passion 


64        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

of  devotedness  than  he  had  known  for  many  years. 
She  looked  pale — had  she  also  had  her  painful 
dreams  ?  And  this  was  surely  her  question,  as  much 
as  his.  He  took  his  resolution  instantly.  "Mar- 
garet/' he  said,  "Dr.  Jordan  was  just  discussing 
with  me  the  events  of  yesterday.  It  seems  the  papers 
are  full  of  reports  about  me.  I'd  like  you  to  hear 
what  he  says;  it  concerns  you,  too,  and  we'll  advise 
together." 

Margaret  looked  at  him  with  a  grateful  smile, 
and  silently  sat  down  at  his  side.  "Now,  Dr. 
Jordan,  you  were  saying " 

Jordan  went  over  the  ground  again,  taking  care 
to  explain  with  more  than  his  accustomed  suavity 
the  points  he  wished  to  emphasize.  He  was  secretly 
annoyed  and  embarrassed  by  the  presence  of  Mrs. 
Gaunt.  But  he  was  much  too  adroit  a  man  to  be- 
tray the  least  discomfiture. 

"And  what  do  you  advise  ?"  said  Margaret. 

"Well,  it's  a  little  difficult  to  say  offhand,  but  it 
seems  to  me  the  wisest  way  would  be  to  give  it  out 
that  you're  suffering  from  nervous  breakdown,  and 
go  away  at  once  to  Florida  for  a  month.  It's  a 
mercy  for  us  ministers  that  our  people  have  very 
short  memories.  We  suppose  that  they  remember  our 
sermons,  and  some  of  them  like  to  pretend  that 
they  do.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  forget  them  in 
a  month.  Go  away,  and  you'll  find  it  will  all  blow 
over.  Take  care  that  you  don't  give  them  very  good 
supplies  while  you  are  away;  that  will  increase  their 


DR.    JORDAN  6$ 

gratitude  when  you  come  back.  You'll  come  back 
with  flying  colours,  and  very  likely  get  a  new  start 
and  do  better  than  ever.  There's  nothing  like  a 
nervous  breakdown  to  quicken  people's  loyalty." 

Gaunt  could  not  forbear  a  burst  of  laughter.  But 
even  while  he  laughed  he  was  conscious  of  a  deepen- 
ing sense  of  annoyance,  and  a  rising  disgust.  Jor- 
dan's remedy  for  his  difficulties  was  really  too  colos- 
sally  impudent  in  its  complete  disregard  of  the  vital 
elements  of  the  problem. 

"And  you  really  think  I  could  do  that?"  he  said. 

"Why  not  ?"  said  Jordan,  with  a  grave  smile.  "Let 
us  look  at  the  facts  of  the  case.  You've  a  little  over- 
stepped the  mark  of  discretion.  That's  no  great  sin. 
We're  all  liable  to  it.  No  one  will  think  the  worse 
of  you  for  it,  unless  you  persist  in  it.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  you've  got  a  splendid  advertisement  out  of 
it.  A  month's  judicious  silence,  and,  I  repeat,  you 
will  come  back  to  your  pulpit  with  added  popu- 
larity." 

"Oh,  if  popularity  were  everything,  if  that  was 
what  I  was  playing  for,  I  dare  say  you  are  right.  But 
you  forget  that  this  is  a  question  of  truth  and  self- 
respect.  I  must  go  on  in  the  course  I  have  taken  at 
all  costs,  or  lose  all  right  to  my  own  respect  and  the 
respect  of  others." 

"At  all  costs? — That's  a  large  order.  I  wonder 
whether  you  have  really  counted  the  costs?  Here 
and  there  a  man  is  born  who  can  afford  to  talk  in 
this  way.  He  usually  comes  about  once  in  a  cen- 


66        A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

tury.  Even  then  he  is  commonly  the  child  of  a 
movement,  not  its  creator.  He  happens  to  speak 
something  that  is  in  everybody's  mind,  and  that  is 
why  he  succeeds.  He  hits  the  psychologic  moment 
— that  is  all.  Do  you  suppose  yourself  that  kind  of 
man?  If  you  are  not,  the  wisest  thing  you  can  do 
is  to  have  the  sense  to  come  in  out  of  the  rain." 

"I  don't  pretend  to  be  any  particular  kind  of  man, 
Jordan.  I'm  just  myself.  I've  done  what  I  thought 
right,  and  as  for  counting  the  costs  IVe  never 
thought  of  them." 

"No.  I  supposed  not,  and  that's  why  I  came  to  see 
you  directly  I  knew  what  had  occurred.  Now,  don't 
be  angry — you  know  I  am  your  friend  and  mean  well 
by  you.  I've  seen  in  my  twenty  years'  experience 
a  good  half-dozen  men  as  brilliant  as  you  fizzle  out, 
not  through  decay  of  power,  but  through  indiscre- 
tion. Where  are  they  now?  Some  of  them  are 
eating  their  hearts  out  with  chagrin  in  miserable 
country  churches  from  which  they  will  never  emerge. 
They've  been  relegated  to  obscurity,  and  are  glad 
to  do  a  priest's  poorest  duty  for  a  piece  of  bread. 
One  of  them  is  an  ill-paid  journalist, — he  thought 
the  press  would  welcome  him  and  he'd  be  an  editor, 
— he's  a  disappointed  journalist  doing  hackwork  for 
a  pittance,  and  he'll  never  be  anything  better.  An- 
other of  them  is  actually  a  book-hawker — I  bought 
a  trashy  cyclopaedia  which  I  didn't  want  from  him 
the  other  day  as  an  act  of  charity — and  he  once  had 
a  church  as  good  as  yours.  The  trouble  with  all 


DR.    JORDAN  67 

these  men  was  that  they  thought  themselves  bigger 
than  they  were,  they  imagined  they  could  do  as  they 
liked,  and  they  didn't  understand  their  relation  to 
their  churches.  Now  the  plain  fact  is  no  man  can 
do  as  he  likes  in  a  church,  however  strong  he  is. 
If  he  can't  carry  his  church  with  him  in  what  he 
does,  he  has  to  go — that's  the  brutal  truth.  The 
church  is  always  stronger  than  the  man,  for  the 
church  knows  perfectly  that  it  can  get  a  hundred 
men  to  pick  and  choose  from,  and  the  man  knows  he 
can't  get  a  church." 

"You  assume  I'm  at  war  with  my  church,"  inter- 
rupted Gaunt.  "That's  not  the  case.  My  church 
has  always  given  me  the  fullest  liberty  of  speech, 
and  I  have  no  reason  to  suppose  they  wish  to  re- 
trench that  liberty." 

"Fiddle-de-dee!"  said  Jordan.  "Really,  Gaunt, 
you  amaze  me.  Don't  you  know  that  this  boasted 
liberty  of  speech  means  nothing  more  than  liberty 
to  say  things  your  people  like  you  to  say?  Begin 
to  say  the  things  they  don't  want  you  to  say,  and 
you'll  soon  discover  how  little  your  liberty  is  worth." 

"And  you  amaze  me,"  retorted  Gaunt.  "I  never 
heard  from  any  one  so  low  an  ideal  of  a  church  as 
yours." 

"It  may  low  or  high,  that  is  a  matter  of  opinion, 
but  I  know  it's  true.  I  could  wish  it  otherwise,  and 
if  wishes  were  wings  pigs  would  fly.  So,  being  a 
moderately  wise  man,  I  don't  spend  my  time  in  idle 
wishes — I  take  my  facts,  try  to  understand  them, 


68        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

and  act  accordingly.  If  I  have  to  drive  a  freight 
train  over  a  bad  road,  I  don't  try  to  run  it  like  a 
Twentieth  Century  Flier;  I  know  it  can't  be  done. 
I  economize  my  steam,  and  do  the  best  I  can,  and 
am  content  to  get  through  on  schedule  time,  though 
the  speed  is  pretty  poor.  But  after  all  it's  better  to 
get  there  than  to  burst  up  on  the  way  through  over- 
zeal.  Well,  a  church  is  a  pretty  heavy  freight-train, 
and  you  can  supply  the  rest  of  the  parable  for  your- 
self. Keep  to  your  schedule — you  may  be  sure  it's 
the  best  that  can  be  done. 

"I  know  your  church  better  than  you  think;  I 
knew  it  long  before  you  came  to  it.  You  don't  like 
Roberts,  and  you  despise  him  for  his  business  way 
of  looking  at  things.  Now  I  know  Roberts  very 
well;  in  fact,  he's  an  old  friend  of  mine.  He's  really 
a  very  worthy  man;  a  little  penurious,  of  course,  as 
we  know,  but  that's  his  nature.  He  really  admires 
you,  as  much  as  such  a  man  can.  And  he  really 
loves  the  church,  and  would  toil  night  and  day  for 
its  success,  for  it's  the  only  bit  of  idealism  in  his 
narrow  life.  Why  offend  him?  In  your  position 
I  should  conciliate  and  use  him.  And  it's  the  same 
with  all  your  people;  they  are  proud  of  their  church. 
But  if  you  antagonize  them,  they're  only  human, 
and  they'll  retaliate.  And  then  you'll  get  at  the  true 
nature  of  your  costs — you'll  have  to  go,  and  you'll 
get  a  dreadful  fall,  and  you'll  find  that  the  papers 
which  hail  you  as  a  prophet  to-day  will  forget  your 
existence  the  moment  you're  a  discarded  minister. 


DR.    JORDAN  69 

"Now  can't  you  see  that  it's  better  to  get  your 
freight  train  through  on  good  time  than  to  wreck  it 
by  attempting  the  impossible  ?" 

"Oh,  I  see  you're  right  from  your  point  of  view, 
Jordan.  And  I  should  be  ungrateful  if  I  didn't  rec- 
ognize that  you  really  mean  to  help  me.  Only,  you 
see,  our  points  of  view  are  different." 

"Well,  you'll  come  to  mine,  when  you've  thought 
about  it  enough,"  said  Jordan,  cheerfully.  "The  sig- 
nals are  against  you.  Don't  outrun  your  signals. 
Take  my  advice — go  to  Florida,  and  when  the 
prodigal  comes  home  there  will  be  the  usual 
festivities." 

Gaunt,  in  spite  of  his  resentment,  felt  it  impos- 
sible to  be  angry  with  the  man.  He  was  so  imper- 
turbably  amiable,  so  certain  of  his  own  wisdom,  so 
sincerely  friendly  and  well-meaning.  He  shook 
hands  with  him  cordially,  although  he  knew  that  a 
great  gulf  separated  them. 

"I  shall  leave  Mrs.  Gaunt  as  my  ambassador," 
Jordan  said,  as  he  left  the  room.  "Mrs.  Gaunt  is 
a  practical  woman.  It's  a  lucky  thing  for  you  poor 
babes  of  genius  that  you  have  given  to  you  by  a 
merciful  Providence  a  wise  woman  to  mother  your 
ignorance." 

Gaunt  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  When  he 
returned  to  the  library  Margaret  was  still  standing 
as  he  had  left  her.  Her  face  was  pale,  her  attitude 
pensive;  only  in  her  eyes  which  were  unusually 
bright,  as  with  a  dew  of  tears,  was  there  the  indi- 


70        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

cation  of  some  hidden  significant  upheaval  in  her 
thought. 

"Well,  Margaret,  what  do  you  think  of  him? 
Didn't  he  make  you  think  of  Bunyan's  Mr.  Worldly 
Wiseman  ?" 

"No,"  she  said,  slowly.  "Not  of  Mr.  Worldly 
Wiseman,  but  of  some  one  much  worse.  Some  one 
sleek,  crafty,  cruel — a  huge  purring  cat,  with  rest- 
less talons.  And  not  that  altogether — a  creature 
conscienceless,  who  didn't  know  it — a  man  recon- 
ciled to  evil  and  little  ways  and  believing  them  good 
and  wise — a  tempter  of  the  soul  with  lips  of  honey. 

"I  shrank  from  him  as  he  spoke.  I  hated  to  take 
his  hand,  I  felt  it  had  power  to  drag  me  down. 

"And  when  he  left  the  room  I  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  said,  'Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.' ' 

For  answer  Gaunt  stooped  and  kissed  her.  A 
great  wave  of  love  and  gratitude  swept  through  his 
heart. 

In  that  moment  he  knew  that  his  wife  understood 
him,  that  she  had  truly  entered  into  his  inner  life 
again,  and  would  never  again  stand  outside  his 
heart's  door. 

Whatever  happened  to  him  now  seemed  but  a 
light  price  to  pay  for  this  sweetness  of  restored  con- 
fidence, this  divine  new-found  happiness. 


VI 
A  DISCUSSION 

DEACON  ROBERTS  lived  in  an  apartment 
house  a  few  blocks  from  Mayfield  Avenue 
Church.  It  was  a  quiet  house  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort,  used  by  old-fashioned  people.  Occa- 
sionally a  young  married  couple  strayed  into  it,  but 
soon  left,  unable  to  endure  its  dulness.  Roberts 
and  his  wife  had  lived  there  for  twelve  years,  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  which  period  they  had  been  sup- 
posed to  be  looking  after  a  house.  Apparently 
they  had  found  it  impossible  to  discover  what  they 
wanted,  for  they  still  occupied  the  same  suite  of 
rooms,  and  had  achieved  the  distinction  of  having 
become  the  oldest  residents. 

The  fact  was  that  whenever  the  opportunity  came 
to  purchase  a  house,  Roberts  grudged  the  expendi- 
ture, and  after  a  brief  struggle  conquered  his  tempta- 
tion and  settled  down  again  to  the  old  life.  Every 
day  he  ate  the  same  breakfast  at  the  same  hour,  went 
downtown,  returned  with  automatic  punctuality, 
sat  down  to  the  same  dinner,  and  was  in  bed  on  the 
stroke  of  eleven.  The  menus  in  the  dining-room 
had  fresh  dates  upon  them  day  by  day,  but  their  sub- 
stance never  varied;  and  the  same  thing  was  true  of 
Roberts'  life.  He  had  steadily  accumulated  money, 

71 


72        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

but  it  had  never  occurred  to  him  to  change  his  mode 
of  life.  His  wife,  a  very  plain  and  homely  woman, 
had  sometimes  spasmodic  attacks  of  social  ambition, 
but  they  had  come  to  nothing.  If  they  had  had  chil- 
dren the  story  might  have  been  different,  but  they 
were  childless.  So  each  settled  more  and  more  into 
a  groove,  from  which  at  last  neither  had  any  desire 
to  escape. 

There  are  many  people  of  this  description  to  be 
found  in  all  large  cities — people  to  whom  the  city 
as  a  vital  entity  does  not  exist.  They  never  go  to 
a  theatre  or  a  concert;  they  take  no  part  in  those 
intellectual  conclaves  where  the  movements  of  art 
or  literature  are  discussed;  they  never  look  upon  a 
celebrated  person,  or  are  present  at  an  historic  occa- 
sion; they  remain  provincials  with  a  provincialism 
more  inelastic  than  any  other,  the  provincialism  of 
cities.  The  only  New  York  they  know  is  bounded 
by  the  business  office  on  one  side  and  the  apartment 
house  on  the  other.  They  are  ignorant  alike  of  the 
splendour  and  the  squalor  that  surrounds  them. 
They  are  like  the  peasants  of  some  war-devastated 
country,  who  see  without  curiosity  the  spears  and 
banners  of  contending  hosts  marching  hither  and 
thither,  themselves  content  to  go  on  tilling  the  soil, 
without  so  much  as  a  question  concerning  the  tre- 
mendous issues  which  antagonize  the  nations.  The 
capacity  for  the  tragic  is  not  in  them.  They  would 
stick  to  the  narrow  round  of  daily  habit  even  though 
the  Last  Trumpet  blew,  and  would  resent  an  inter- 


IYfA   DISCUSSION  73 

ruption  which  disclosed  to  them  the  Gates  of  Para- 
dise. 

Roberts  and  his  wife  were  persons  of  this  order. 
How,  then,  had  Roberts  ever  come  to  be  a  leading 
figure  in  the  life  of  Mayfield  Avenue  Church?  Be- 
cause, as  Dr.  Jordan  put  it,  the  church  represented 
the  one  bit  of  idealism  in  his  prosaic  life.  Here, 
he  who  otherwise  would  have  been  an  entirely  neg- 
ligible item  in  a  vast  city,  was  capable  of  becoming 
important.  His  precise  method  of  speech  created 
the  impression  of  sound  business  judgment  and 
sagacity.  In  the  earlier  period  of  his  association 
with  the  church  he  had  little  influence.  The  man- 
agement of  the  church  was  then  in  the  hands  of 
men  of  much  bigger  calibre  and  social  importance 
than  himself.  But  as  these  died  or  removed,  it  was 
not  easy  to  fill  their  places,  and  then  the  eyes  of  the 
people  were  directed  to  Roberts.  He  was  so  method- 
ical, diligent,  and  punctual,  that  the  absence  in  him 
of  the  larger  gifts  of  leadership  was  overlooked. 
The  time  came  when  it  was  difficult  to  find  men 
either  willing  or  able  to  give  the  church  the  service 
which  an  active  part  in  its  administration  demanded. 
Then  Roberts  found  his  opportunity.  He  became  a 
deacon,  and  was  at  first  a  silent  and  observant 
deacon.  Little  by  little  as  the  business  problems  of 
the  church  became  exigent,  he  acquired  influence, 
till  at  last  he  found  himself  in  a  position  of  author- 
ity. His  authority  was  based  altogether  on  his 
business  faculties;  he  remained  narrow  and  pro- 


74       A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

vincial  in  his  spirit.  He  had  no  more  vision  of  the 
spiritual  ideals  of  a  church  than  he  had  of  the  tragic 
realities  of  the  great  city  in  which  he  lived  the  life 
of  a  tame  cat.  The  church  was  to  him  nothing  more 
than  a  business  enterprise,  and  the  faculties  he  ap- 
plied to  its  service  were  precisely  those  which  gov- 
erned his  office  on  Broadway. 

It  was  a  little  after  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening. 
Dinner  was  over,  and  Roberts  was  expecting  his 
fellow  deacons  at  a  privately  convened  committee 
in  his  own  rooms.  Mrs.  Roberts  had  retired  to  the 
company  of  a  lady  in  a  neighbouring  room,  having 
been  significantly  warned  by  her  husband  that  she 
had  better  not  return  till  after  ten  o'clock.  Roberts 
was  clearly  uneasy.  He  arranged  and  rearranged 
the  chairs  in  the  room  with  a  critical  and  dissatisfied 
air,  walked  restlessly  up  and  down,  and  twice  retired 
to  the  contiguous  bedroom  to  improve  his  toilet. 
When  he  had  completed  these  exercises  he  found 
that  there  was  still  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  spare, 
and  he  used  it  to  review  his  thoughts. 

These  thoughts  were  not  pleasant  and  by  no  means 
clear.  It  was  true,  as  Dr.  Jordan  had  said,  that  he 
admired  Gaunt  in  his  own  way,  but  it  was  with 
many  reservations.  His  admiration  chiefly  went  out 
to  Gaunt  as  a  successful  attraction;  it  did  not  extend 
to  his  intellectual  qualities,  which  he  was  incapable 
of  understanding.  Then,  at  the  back  of  all  his 
thoughts  there  was  a  grievance  of  which  he  had 
never  spoken  to  any  one  except  his  wife.  He  knew 


A   DISCUSSION  75 

very  well  that  Gaunt  had  intimate  relations  with 
certain  members  of  the  church,  which  had  never  been 
extended  to  himself.  There  was  Palmer,  for  exam- 
ple. Gaunt  spent  whole  days  in  Palmer's  society, 
and  yet  Palmer  was  a  financial  nobody.  Besides 
this,  according  to  Roberts'  narrow  creed,  Palmer 
was  a  person  whose  religious  profession  barely  en- 
titled him  to  be  a  member  of  a  church  at  all,  and  still 
less  a  deacon.  Roberts  could  not  complain  that 
Gaunt  had  ever  treated  him  with  discourtesy,  but  it 
was  manifest  that  the  minister  took  no  pleasure  in 
his  company.  Gaunt  had  never  talked  with  him  on 
any  subject  but  the  business  of  the  church.  If  he 
had  visited  him,  the  visits  had  been  brief  and  per- 
functory. Gaunt's  manner  toward  him,  while  out- 
wardly courteous,  was  significant  of  a  certain 
disdain,  the  quiet,  uncalculated  disdain  of  superior 
intellect.  And  Roberts,  like  most  men  who  have 
fought  their  way  from  penury  to  affluence,  had  an 
excellent  opinion  of  himself,  and  was  secretly,  but 
sensitively,  proud  and  vain.  The  more  complete  his 
triumph  in  the  esteem  of  his  fellow  deacons  had 
become,  the  more  irritable  he  felt  over  his  failure 
with  the  minister,  till  at  last  Gaunt  was  to  him  what 
the  unrespectful  Mordecai  at  the  gate  was  to 
Haman. 

These  were  very  small  motives,  no  doubt,  but 
man  is  often  a  very  small  creature.  The  writer  upon 
human  life — the  novelist,  for  example, — is  naturally 
attracted  by  the  big  forces  and  motives,  by  the  pas- 


76        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

sions  of  rage  or  revenge  which  break  out  in  the  red 
flame  of  murder,  by  the  lust  which  wrecks  every- 
thing in  its  path  like  the  tornado,  by  the  relentless 
craft  which  plots  and  achieves  tragedies  that  fill 
the  world  with  horror.  But  these  things  are  after 
all  exceptional.  There  are  other  tragedies,  not  less 
deadly  and  much  more  widely  disastrous  in  their 
effects,  which  have  their  origin  in  causes  so  slight 
that  they  appear  ridiculous.  What  bitter  estrange- 
ments have  arisen  from  a  cold  glance,  a  thoughtless 
word,  an  indifferent  manner!  How  often  has 
wounded  vanity  rankled  till  the  whole  heart  is 
poisoned!  What  alienations  of  friendship,  deepen- 
ing into  deadly  feuds,  have  owed  themselves  to  noth- 
ing more  than  stifled  resentment  over  some  act  so 
trivial  that  it  has  been  quite  unnoticed  by  the  person 
against  whom  the  resentment  has  been  kindled! 
Roberts  was  an  example  of  the  play  of  these  forces. 
As  he  probed  his  thoughts  in  this  brief  quarter  of 
an  hour  of  silent  waiting,  he  discovered  in  the  dark 
recesses  of  his  heart  the  coiled  serpent  of  envenomed 
enmity  to  Gaunt.  He  knew  now  that  he  wanted  to 
see  Gaunt  humbled.  He  would  have  recoiled  from 
the  idea  of  doing  Gaunt  a  personal  injury,  but  lie  did 
want  to  humble  him ;  to  make  him  conscious  that  he, 
Roberts,  was  not  a  person  to  be  lightly  disposed  of. 
His  injured  vanity  demanded  the  sacrifice  of  Gaunt. 
His  own  voracious  sense  of  self-importance,  so  long 
quieted  by  prudential  motives,  could  only  be  satiated 
by  such  a  sacrifice. 


A   DISCUSSION  77 

Half-past  eight  struck,  the  deacons  arrived,  and 
were  soon  seated  at  the  table.  Small  and  Hocking 
were  the  first  to  come;  three  others  followed,  one  of 
whom  only  is  important  in  this  story,  a  little  nervous 
man  called  Tasker.  The  last  to  arrive  was  Palmer. 

Roberts  surveyed  the  little  party  with  the  eye  of 
a  strategist.  He  could  rely  on  Hocking  and  Small, 
with  the  former  of  them  he  had  had  a  long  private 
conference  that  morning,  the  issue  of  which  was  a 
general  agreement  of  hostility  against  Gaunt.  Small 
was  an  obstinate  and  awkward  man,  who  usually 
kept  his  own  counsel;  but  Roberts  knew  him  to  be 
highly  incensed  over  the  sermon  of  Sunday.  Tasker 
was  an  amiable  man,  who  suffered  from  constitu- 
tional inability  to  make  up  his  mind  on  any  subject 
whatever.  He  was  never  so  happy  as  in  balancing 
probabilities,  discovering  difficulties,  quibbling  over 
non-essentials.  His  favourite  phrase  was  that  things 
"act  and  react"!  Everything  acted  and  reacted, 
every  road  had  its  lion  in  the  path,  every  course  of 
action  led  to  negations;  therefore,  inaction  was  the 
only  real  wisdom.  He  was  not  sure  whether  his 
politics  were  Republican  or  Democrat;  sometimes 
they  were  the  one,  sometimes  the  other.  He  would 
argue  for  the  New  Theology,  but  always  with  the 
saving  clause  that  a  good  deal  might  be  said  for 
the  old.  Sometimes  he  talked  like  a  socialist,  but 
the  moment  he  was  acclaimed  as  one,  he  repudiated 
the  accusation,  and  became  violently  individualistic. 
You  see,  everything  acted  and  reacted.  He  had  used 


78        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

the  phrase  so  long  that  he  had  come  to  believe  it 
the  statement  of  an  ultimate  philosophic  principle. 
It  was  a  perplexing  world  for  poor  Tasker;  a  world 
singularly  destitute  of  plain  paths,  and  wickedly 
labyrinthine  in  its  system.  What  could  an  amiable 
and  irresolute  man  do  in  a  world  where  everything 
had  this  mischievous  habit  of  acting  and  reacting  ? 

The  conversation  was  at  first  desultory.  The  fact 
was,  no  one  cared  to  come  to  the  point.  At  last 
Roberts  forced  the  pace. 

"It's  nine  o'clock,"  he  remarked.  "Don't  you 
think  we  had  better  come  to  business  ?" 

"Perhaps  Brother  Roberts  will  state  the  business," 
said  Hocking,  with  a  knowing  glance. 

"I've  no  objection,"  said  Roberts,  with  a  stiffening 
of  his  prim  figure.  He  adjusted  his  spectacles,  and 
began  in  his  most  lawyer-like  tones  of  precision, 
his  thin,  querulous  voice  giving  a  disagreeable  em- 
phasis to  each  word.  He  at  first  confined  himself 
to  his  old  theme  of  facts  and  figures.  His  fellow- 
deacons  moved  uneasily.  They  had  heard  it  all 
before.  They  also  knew  that  this  part  of  his  speech 
was  mere  skirmishing.  They  were  impatient  for 
the  main  point  of  attack. 

"Well,  then,  it  comes  to  this,"  he  concluded.  "We 
can't  pay  our  way  on  the  present  basis.  This  is  a 
meeting  of  business  (men,  and  we  must  look  at  things 
in  a  business  spirit.  We  all  respect  and  admire  our 
pastor."  Here  Hocking  coughed  loudly,  and  Tasker 
nodded  approvingly.  "But  when  a  business  is  not 


A   DISCUSSION  79 

succeeding,  however  much  we  may  respect  our  man- 
ager, we  have  to  deal  with  him  plainly.  We  have 
to  tell  him  that  part  of  the  blame  is  his.  In  any 
case  it  would  be  only  just  to  reduce  his  income.  I 
am  prepared  to  recommend  the  latter  course  in  re- 
lation to  our  manager — our  minister,  I  mean, — viz., 
that  the  circumstances  of  the  case  warrant  us  in  re- 
ducing his  income  by  one-third." 

The  conclave  drew  a  long  breath. 

Tasker  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  was  taken  by 
surprise.  Of  course  he  would  not  dispute  the  fig- 
ures. But  there  was  a  point  that  weighed  with  him : 
what  would  the  world  think?  What  would  become 
of  their  prestige?  Retrenchment  might  be  neces- 
sary, but  was  it  politic  ?  And  then  came  his  favour- 
ite phrase — these  things  acted  and  reacted.  On  the 
one  hand  you  might  retrench,  but  on  the  other  you 
must  consider  what  the  effect  would  be  on  the 
public.  There  was  clearly  no  light  of  resolution  in 
Tasker. 

"Prestige/'  growled  Small.  "I  guess  that's  pretty 
low,  anyway.  Last  Sunday  has  given  the  church  a 
black  eye  for  all  decent  people." 

"Allow  me,"  replied  Tasker,  in  his  most  amicable 
voice,  "but  I  really  don't  think  I  can  let  that  pass. 
I  don't  think  I  can.  I  don't  at  all  agree  that  the 
church  has  suffered  by  anything — anything  from 
what  has  occurred.  In  fact,  if  we  are  to  discuss  last 
Sunday  morning's  address,  I  must  say  I  agreed 
with  it — that  is,  in  part.  I  think  that  if  we  came 


8o        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

to  talk  matters  over  with  the  pastor  we  should  find 
that  we  are  all  agreed  with  him — in  part.  Of  course 
he  may  have  been  injudicious,  slightly  injudicious, 
but  the  papers  were  not  unfriendly.  I  have  all  the 
press  reports  in  my  pocket,  and  I  think  I  can  prove 
that  the  press  was  not  unfriendly — that  is,  not  really 
unfriendly " 

"We  are  not  here  to  discuss  the  press,"  inter- 
rupted Hocking.  "We  have  our  own  eyes,  and  can 
read." 

"Yes,"  persisted  Tasker,  "but  isn't  it  a  fact  that 
this  meeting  was  called  as  a  result  of  last  Sunday's 
sermon  ?" 

"No,  it's  not  a  fact,"  said  Roberts.  "We  may 
have  our  own  views  about  that  sermon — for  my 
part  I  thought  it  deplorable — but  whether  that  ser- 
mon had  been  preached  or  not,  we  should  still  have 
had  to  consider  the  financial  position  of  the  church. 
That  is  the  main  point.  That  is  what  we  have  to 
discuss." 

The  two  colourless  deacons  nodded  their  heads. 
They  were  old  gentlemen,  and  wanted  to  go  home  to 
bed.  They  were  amiable  men,  with  no  known  an- 
tipathies; but  they  each  cherished  a  strong  dislike 
to  late  meetings. 

In  the  meantime,  Palmer  had  sat  silent.  He  had 
been  coldly  greeted  on  his  arrival  by  Roberts,  who 
had  secretly  hoped  that  he  would  not  come. 

"I  agree  with  Deacon  Roberts,"  he  said,  "as  to 
the  real  point  of  discussion.  No  one  is  better  able 


A   DISCUSSION  81 

than  he  to  discuss  finance.  No  one  is  less  fitted  to 
discuss  ethics  and  philosophy/' 

Palmer's  voice  was  quietly  ironical.  It  was  that 
note  of  irony  in  Palmer  which  always  irritated 
Roberts.  It  was  a  weapon  against  which  he  knew  he 
had  no  defence.  He  flushed  at  the  words,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  behind  his  spectacles;  but  he  mastered 
himself,  and  said  with  a  sorry  attempt  at  a  smile, 
"That  is  not  prettily  put,  but  I  don't  dispute  its 
truth.  I  am  glad  that  Deacon  Palmer  supports  my 
view  of  the  nature  of  the  meeting." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Palmer,  "ethics  do  enter 
into  this  discussion,  as  they  do  into  any  kind  of 
human  business.  I  think  we  should  be  very  sure 
that  in  any  attitude  we  may  take  to-night  toward 
the  church  and  its  affairs,  no  personal  feeling  is 
allowed  to  distort  our  views." 

"I  disclaim  all  personal  feeling,"  retorted  Roberts. 
"I  am  concerned  solely  over  the  finances  of  the 
church.  I  don't  allow  any  feeling  connected  with 
the  pastor  to  enter  into  the  matter." 

"Judas  would  probably  have  said  the  same  thing/' 
said  Palmer.  "He  thought  so  much  of  the  thirty 
pieces  of  silver  that  he  quite  forgot  his  Master." 

"What  am  I  to  understand  by  that?"  said  Roberts, 
angrily. 

"Precisely  what  I  say,"  said  Palmer.  "Your 
mind  is  obsessed  by  questions  of  finance.  I  don't  say 
that  they  have  no  importance.  But  you  see  nothing 
else.  And  there  is  much  more  than  a  pitiable  ques- 


82        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

tion  of  money  involved.  There's  a  human  life,  a 
man,  a  ministry.  There's  the  question  of  truth; 
what  men  ought  to  think  and  do  who  call  them- 
selves the  disciples  of  Jesus,  how  they  ought  to  feel, 
what  is  the  right  interpretation  of  their  disciple- 
ship.  Judas  forgot  all  that.  He  saw  failure  ahead, 
and  his  own  prestige  theatened;  so  he  made  the  best 
bargain  he  could,  and  got  his  thirty  pieces  of  silver, 
and  in  his  shameful  fear  and  haste  had  not  one 
thought  of  love,  or  loyalty,  or  even  pity  for  the  Man 
he  had  professed  to  follow.  We  are  in  peril  of  the 
same  blindness  to-night.  We  are  thinking  of  money, 
always  money,  and " 

"I  must  interrupt  this — this  diatribe,"  said  Rob- 
erts. "As  chairman  of  this  meeting,  I  must  inter- 
rupt." His  thin  voice  quivered  with  indignation. 

"I  must  insist  on  the  question  which  is  before  us 
being  discussed,"  he  continued. 

"Which  is?"  said  Palmer. 

"A  recommendation  which  I  make,  after  long 
deliberation,  that  the  salary  of  the  minister  of  the 
Mayfield  Avenue  Church  be  reduced  by  one-third." 

"After  long  deliberation  ?"  said  Palmer.  "Should 
I  be  wrong  if  I  guessed  that  the  deliberation  was  no 
longer  than  since  last  Sunday — that,  in  fact,  this 
step  is  the  direct  result  of  certain  feelings  aroused 
on  that  day?" 

"Now,  need  we  recriminate  like  this?"  said 
Tasker.  "According  to  my  view  you  are  both  right 
and  both  wrong.  Of  course  the  question  of  finance 


A   DISCUSSION  83 

must  be  considered,  and  I  suppose  that  certain  things 
said  last  Sunday  will  have  some  influence  on  minds 
in  considering  it.  These  things  act  and  react." 

But  no  one  heeded  him.  The  little  man  flushed 
with  nervousness  and  sat  down  in  painful  agitation. 
Roberts  and  Palmer  remained  standing.  It  was  evi- 
dent that  the  duel  was  between  them. 

"I  don't  know  what  right  any  one  has  to  investi- 
gate my  private  thought,"  said  Roberts.  "But  I 
don't  in  the  least  object  to  giving  a  plain  answer  to 
a  plain  question.  I  did  resolve  on  my  course  last 
Sunday.  I  did  so  because  I  saw  that  from  that  hour 
new  difficulties  were  certain  to  come  upon  the 
church.  Things  were  difficult  before  that;  they  are 
a  thousandfold  worse  now.  Therefore,  I  am  of 
opinion  that  the  course  I  recommend  has  now  be- 
come imperative.  We  must  reduce  our  expenditure, 
and  do  it  at  once.  Has  Deacon  Palmer  anything  to 
say  against  that  course  ?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  point/'  said  Hocking.  "Let  us 
vote  and  be  done  with  it." 

Small  nodded  his  head  vehemently.  The  two  col- 
ourless deacons  nodded  theirs.  They  were  eager 
for  bed,  poor  gentlemen,  and  did  not  care  very  much 
what  happened  if  only  the  meeting  would  close. 

"Yes,  I've  something  to  say,"  said  Palmer. 

"An  amendment,  perhaps  ?"  sneered  Roberts. 

"Not  altogether,"  said  Palmer.  "A  statement, 
rather,  and  one  that  may  prove  a  little  surprising. 
Briefly  it  is  this.  I  have  had  a  long  conversation 


84        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

to-day  with  Dr.  Gaunt.  The  issue  of  it,  as  regards 
this  particular  discussion,  may  be  stated  in  a  few 
words.  Dr.  Gaunt  recognizes  fully  the  financial 
difficulties  of  the  church,  and  takes  what,  I  think,  is 
a  more  than  generous  view  of  his  own  responsibility 
for  those  difficulties.  He  is  also  entirely  aware  that 
since  he  does  not  intend  to  retract  anything  that 
he  said  last  Sunday,  but  rather  to  reiterate  it,  the 
difficulties  of  the  position  may  tend  to  increase 
rather  than  decrease.  Therefore  he  authorizes  me 
to  say  that  henceforth  he  will  accept  no  fixed  salary 
from  the  church.  He  wishes  to  be  entirely  free  in 
his  teachings,  and  in  order  to  become  so  has  deter- 
mined to  free  the  church  from  all  financial  obliga- 
tions toward  himself." 

The  announcement  came  as  a  bolt  out  of  the  blue. 
Roberts  knew  that  his  scheme  had  failed.  He  was 
too  astute  to  admit  it,  however.  He  uttered  a  few 
halting  words  which  expressed  a  recognition  of  the 
generosity  of  Gaunt.  But  no  one  was  deceived  by 
them.  Least  of  all  was  he  himself  deceived.  From 
that  hour  his  enmity  was  hatred,  the  unquenchable 
hatred  of  defeated  cunning. 


VII 
THE   GHOSTLY   DAWN 

OF  all  hours  that  carry  alarm  to  the  human 
soul,  there  is  no  hour  so  full  of  the  signifi- 
cance of  fear  as  that  gray  interval  which 
follows  the  first  breath  of  dawn.  Not  the  night,  for 
we  understand  its  meaning,  and  know  how  to  wel- 
come its  silences  after  day's  loud  tumult.  The  true 
ghostly  hour,  before  which  the  soul  shrinks,  is  not 
the  hour  when  the  world  falls  asleep,  but  when  it 
awakes.  For  then  the  atmosphere  is  pregnant  with 
presences;  the  dead,  it  may  be,  hurrying  back  to 
the  house  of  dust  before  the  cock  crows;  angels 
withdrawing  from  the  chambers  where  they  have 
watched  the  dying;  the  dying  themselves,  with  their 
last  fight  accomplished,  gliding  out  with  fearful  feet 
upon  the  long  road  that  lies  among  the  stars.  Then, 
too,  all  familiar  shapes  are  clothed  in  vagueness,  and 
appear  strange  and  menacing.  The  tall  houses  are 
mere  pillars  of  gloom;  the  windows,  where  no  hu- 
man face  appears,  are  as  sealed  eyes,  made  blind  by 
tragic  visions  which  are  secret  and  unspoken;  the 
very  streets,  empty  of  their  eager  life,  loom  spectral; 
the  trees  are  as  hooded  nuns,  clothed  in  gray;  and 
the  world  draws  long  shuddering  breaths,  and  sigh- 

85 


86        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

ings  fill  the  air,  and  echoes  of  the  secular  strifes  of 
men  whose  very  memories  are  forgotten.  It  is  this 
element  of  uncertainty  which  makes  the  hour  dread- 
ful— the  uncertain  light,  and  shapes,  and  sounds — 
and  the  sense  that  with  the  slow  growth  of  light 
there  must  come  some  revelation  so  new  and 
strange  that  the  soul  at  once  desires  and  shrinks 
from  it. 

"But  when  the  day  was  now  breaking,  Jesus 

stood  on  the  beach;  yet  the  disciples  knew  not 

that  it  was  Jesus." 

The  veriest  sceptic  might  believe  that  record.  Any- 
thing may  happen  in  the  ghostly  dawn,  when  the 
mists  melt  upon  a  silent  sea ;  and  the  strangest  thing 
of  all  may  happen,  that  Jesus  stands  beside  us,  and 
we  do  not  know  Him. 

It  was  so  that  Gaunt  felt  in  those  weeks  which 
followed  the  events  already  narrated.  He  stood 
in  a  spectral  world,  where  everything  seemed  unreal. 
His  whole  past  life  appeared  an  error,  a  nullity.  It 
had  crumbled  beneath  his  feet  and  disappeared.  The 
things  which  had  loomed  large  in  that  life  melted 
into  nothingness,  and  a  vague  new  world  began 
to  build  itself  around  him. 

Amid  these  shadows  he  groped  slowly,  at  first 
more  conscious  of  a  lost  world  than  of  a  world  new- 
born. Ever  since  that  memorable  Sunday  when  he 
had  broken  with  tradition,  he  had  been  aware  of  a 
great  change  in  himself.  The  values  of  life  had 
altered.  He  was  no  longer  anxious  to  please  men, 


THE    GHOSTLY    DAWN  87 

nor  careful  of  his  reputation.  He  had  never  been 
so  in  any  narrow  or  unworthy  sense,  but  as  he  sur- 
veyed his  past  life  he  saw  that  these  had  often  been 
the  guiding  motives  of  his  conduct.  He  had  been  a 
man  conscious  of  a  great  position,  and  of  the  influ- 
ence which  attached  to  it;  but  now  self-consciousness 
was  dead  in  him.  He  knew  men  talked  much  of  him, 
and  not  kindly,  but  he  was  not  careful  to  know  what 
they  said.  He  was  as  one  who  treads  a  high  moun- 
tain path  alone,  hearing  no  more  the  babble  of  voices 
in  the  village  at  his  feet.  In  all  his  public  addresses 
he  had  hitherto  cared  much  for  literary  form.  He 
knew  the  fine  phrases  in  his  sermons,  was  subtly  con- 
scious of  their  value,  and  of  their  effect  on  others,  and 
had  waited  for  that  effect.  Perhaps  his  phrases  were 
not  less  felicitous  now,  but  he  was  unconscious  of 
them ;  he  spoke  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  con- 
scious only  of  the  burden  of  his  message.  For  men 
like  Roberts,  whom  he  had  once  despised,  he  felt 
now  only  soft  commiseration.  He  saw  them  as  men 
imprisoned  in  a  narrow  life,  men  to  be  pitied  rather 
than  blamed.  His  manner  toward  them  was 
singularly  gentle;  and  although  they  often  sought 
to  provoke  him,  he  had  no  angry  words  for 
them. 

The  earliest  effect  of  this  change  of  temper  was 
the  decision  renouncing  his  salary  which  Palmer  had 
made  at  the  deacons'  meeting. 

"You  can  do  nothing  for  men  until  you  have  con- 
vinced them  that  you  are  disinterested/'  Palmer  had 


88        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

said  to  him.  "The  chief  hindrance  to  the  Church 
is  that  men  do  not  believe  its  ministers  disinter- 
ested." 

"Am  I  not  disinterested  ?"  he  had  replied. 

"Certainly  you  are,  according  to  conventional 
standards/'  Palmer  had  replied.  "I  know,  and  a 
few  other  people  know,  that  a  man  of  your  ability 
might  have  done  well  in  any  profession,  and  have 
reaped  far  greater  worldly  rewards.  But  that  is 
not  the  point.  The  mass  of  men  judge  not  by  what 
is,  but  by  what  seems.  They  see  you  living  a  com- 
fortable life,  well-paid,  and  according  to  their  own 
standards  even  extravagantly  paid,  for  what  appears 
an  easy  exercise  of  ability.  They  not  unnaturally 
suppose  that  complete  honesty  of  mind  is  not  possible 
in  such  a  position.  They  regard  your  calling  as  a 
profession.  You  do  something  which  you  are  paid 
to  do.  It  does  not  in  the  least  matter  that  their 
estimate  is  unjust  or  ignorant.  They  think  these 
things.  Consequently  they  keep  away  from  the 
church,  and  if  they  hear  you  at  any  time  do  so  with 
suspicion  of  your  motives." 

"You  can  never  overcome  prejudices  of  this 
kind,"  Gaunt  replied,  sadly. 

"Cannot  you  ?  My  dear  friend,  have  you  forgotten 
your  history?  Why,  history  is  full  of  the  splendid 
stories  of  men  who  have  cast  away  their  supports, 
given  up  everything  for  an  idea.  And  as  I  read  his- 
tory, that  has  been  the  supreme  secret  of  the  success 
of  a  Francis  of  Assisi,  of  a  John  Wesley,  of  a  Booth. 


THE    GHOSTLY   DAWN  89 

The  world  reveres  its  martyrs,  whomsoever  else  it 
may  despise." 

"But,  Palmer,  I  am  not  one  of  these.  I  am  only 
a  weak  man  struggling  toward  the  light." 

"And  what  more  were  they?  Great  men  at  the 
last — yes — but  weak  men  once.  Oh,  I  know  how 
you  think  and  feel.  You  are  a  victim  to  that  en- 
feebling adoration  of  great  men  which  is  so  com- 
mon to-day.  You  adore  them  as  exceptions  to  the 
rule  of  life.  You  ought  to  think  of  them  as  exam- 
ples, and  to  say  what  man  has  done  and  been,  man 
can  still  do  and  be." 

"No,  no,  Palmer.  I  might  think  in  this  way  of 
other  people,  but  never  of  myself." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  set  you  an  easier  task,"  said 
Palmer.  "Let  us  forget  all  about  great  men,  and 
simply  look  to  ourselves.  Do  you  see  this  one  thing 
to  be  true,  that  your  power  over  men,  and  any  one's 
power,  will  be  in  the  direct  ratio  of  the  conviction 
men  have  of  their  disinterestedness?" 

"Yes,  I  see  that." 

"And  do  you  realize  that  you  are  just  entering 
on  a  path  which  can  only  be  pursued  by  constant 
self-renunciation?  Do  you  realize  that  what  the 
world  is  always  seeking,  and  for  the  most  part  in 
vain,  is  living  examples  of  what  self-renunciation 
means,  and  that  Christianity  can  only  regain  its 
authority  by  the  influence  of  such  lives  ?" 

"Oh,  I  see  it,  I  see  it,"  Gaunt  answered,  passion- 
ately. "I  have  seen  it  for  a  long  time,  but  have  been 


90       A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

afraid  to  admit  it.  I  can't  read  the  Gospels  without 
feeling  their  reproach  for  a  life  like  mine.  I  can't 
come  into  contact  with  poor  people  without  realiz- 
ing the  essential  falseness  of  my  position.  And  I 
feel  it  most  of  all  in  the  pulpit.  I  am  a  tame  prophet. 
I  am  bound  by  a  chain  of  gold. — The  angel  with  the 
fire  of  coal  hovers  just  above  me,  but  I  cannot  reach 
out  to  him. — Sometimes  I  hardly  wish  to.  I  fear 
the  pain." 

"Touch  the  flame/'  said  Palmer,  softly,  "and 
it  will  melt  the  chain  as  well  as  scorch  the 
lips." 

It  was  Palmer's  way  to  put  a  thing  in  a  phrase, 
and  leave  the  truth  so  uttered  to  do  its  own  work. 
He  had  that  rarest  art  of  moral  surgery,  to  know 
exactly  how  far  the  knife  should  go,  at  what  point 
to  stop.  During  all  the  years  of  his  friendship  with 
Gaunt  he  had  been  quietly  studying  his  friend's  na- 
ture, with  a  growing  belief  in  its  immense  but  latent 
spiritual  possibilities.  He  had  never  intruded  his 
advice.  Often  he  had  purposely  offered  it  in  an 
ironical  and  even  humorous  form.  He  had  always 
had  some  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  coming  crisis 
in  Gaunt's  life;  and  so  he  was  prepared  for  it,  and 
knew  precisely  how  to  act.  And  now  that  he  saw 
the  soul  struggling  to  be  born,  he  knew  the  way 
that  it  must  travel,  the  method  of  its  deliverance 
and  triumph.  It  was  the  old  way  of  self-renuncia- 
tion; there  was  no  other. 

"Can   these   things   be?"    Gaunt   had   pondered 


THE    GHOSTLY   DAWN  91 

sadly  through  the  long  sleepless  night  which  had 
followed  this  talk  with  his  friend. 

"Can  I  let  the  old  life  go — the  well-ordered,  com- 
fortable life,  of  ascertained  duties  and  desires — for 
this  new  life  whose  paths  seem  so  vague,  so  peril- 
ous ?"  The  ghostly  dawn  weighed  on  him.  And  yet 
amid  all  the  fear  and  trouble  of  that  hour,  he  was 
conscious,  as  it  were,  of  Some  One  who  gently  loos- 
ened his  fingers  as  they  clung  to  the  world — 
unlocked  them  one  by  one  in  quiet  mastery,  so 
that  the  baubles  of  pride  and  worldliness  for 
which  he  had  fought  fell  from  his  grasp,  and  fell 
unregarded. 

The  practical  issue  of  these  emotions  was  the 
message  which  Palmer  had  given  to  the  deacons. 
Gaunt  realized  that  he  must  be  free,  and  he  dared 
be  poor  in  order  that  he  might  be  free.  Hence- 
forth he  would  take  nothing  from  the  world  that 
should  be  a  bribe,  or  even  a  possible  menace  to  his 
own  spiritual  freedom.  It  may  seem  a  small  step, 
perhaps,  to  those  who  have  never  taken  it;  to  those 
who  have  never  had  enough  of  the  world  to  feel 
its  loss ;  to  those  who  have  never  known  the  satisfac- 
tions of  a  life  which  has  been  fed  with  praise,  and 
have  never  eaten  the  rough  crusts  of  blame.  But  to 
a  man  of  Gaunt's  nature,  inherently  proud,  and 
accustomed  to  the  material  rewards  of  success,  it 
meant  much.  It  implied  a  reversal  of  all  customary 
thoughts,  an  entire  change  of  attitude  toward  the 
world. 


92        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

The  vagueness  and  fear  of  the  ghostly  dawn  was 
also  with  him  in  other  ways,  particularly  in  rela- 
tion to  his  thoughts  about  religion. 

Religion  had  hitherto  been  for  him  a  philosophy 
touched  with  sentiment — it  was  so  he  would  have 
defined  it.  He  had  rationalized  his  religion  to  the 
last  point  at  which  any  kind  of  faith  was  possible. 
The  result  had  been  that  the  older  he  grew  the  less 
he  had  in  which  he  really  believed.  All  the  super- 
natural elements  of  the  Gospels  he  had  quietly  dis- 
carded. The  Gospels  were  to  him  a  beautiful 
amalgam  of  legend,  symbol,  and  poetry.  They 
charmed  him,  but  the  charm  was  in  the  main  lit- 
erary. They  were  the  creation  of  adoring  minds, 
whose  adoration  flowered  into  literary  genius;  but 
as  sober  histories  they  were  impossible. 

But  now  he  had  reached  a  point  where  he  had 
become  humble  enough  to  doubt  his  own  doubts. 
He  could  hardly  have  defined  the  exact  processes 
of  his  thought,  but  there  were  certain  episodes  which 
marked  his  progress. 

One  of  these  episodes  was  a  visit  which  he  paid 
one  day  to  the  dying  bed  of  a  youth  of  his  congre- 
gation who  had  been  fatally  injured  in  the  football 
field.  He  had  always  been  a  quiet  youth,  of  good 
life,  but  he  had  never  made  any  open  profession 
of  religion.  Just  before  he  died  a  wonderful  smile 
lit  up  his  face,  he  raised  his  hand  as  if  to  greet  some 
unseen  friend,  and  said,  "I'm  not  afraid.  I  see 
Jesus.  He  is  with  me."  The  words  were  not  un- 


THE    GHOSTLY    DAWN  93 

usual;  Gaunt  knew  perfectly  well  that  in  the  hysteria 
of  death  such  words  were  often  uttered  by  devout 
people.  But  the  curious  thing  in  this  instance  was 
that  this  dying  youth  had  never  been  devout;  there 
was  nothing  hysteric  in  his  nature;  and  the  look 
upon  his  face  was  one  of  immense  surprise,  as 
though  the  vision  had  come  unsought,  and  was  not 
the  reflex  of  a  previous  experience — a  fantasy 
wrought  out  of  memories  of  hymns  and  sermons; 
such  explanations  were  absurd,  impossible.  That 
look  of  surprise — the  intensity,  the  wonder  of  it, 
and  yet  the  element  of  recognition,  as  if  it  were 
after  all  a  natural  thing  that  Jesus  should  be  there, — 
how  explain  it  ? 

The  martyr,  the  saint,  had  a  right  to  such  a  vision. 
It  would  be  the  natural  birth  of  the  ecstasy  which 
made  them  capable  of  martyrdom.  But  this  lad — an 
ordinary  good  lad,  fond  of  sport,  unimaginative? 
Gaunt  looked  round  the  room,  seeking  for  some  clue 
among  the  boy's  simple  possessions.  There  were 
the  usual  portraits  of  college  friends,  the  college 
badge,  a  shelf  of  books  of  quite  commonplace  char- 
acter, a  Greek  Testament — nothing  that  suggested 
the  devout  temperament.  He  talked  with  the 
parents — all  that  they  could  say  was  that  he  was 
always  a  good  lad,  full  of  brightness  and  affection. 
And  yet  to  him  came  this  vision — this  surprising 
vision. 

He  told  Palmer  the  incident. 

Palmer  listened  with  a  grave  smile. 


94       A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  is  it  that  you  find  so  in- 
comprehensible ?" 

"Why,  just  this/'  said  Gaunt,  "that,  granting  the 
vision  real,  it  should  come  to  that  lad/' 

"And  to  whom  could  it  come  more  fittingly?" 
Palmer  replied.  "Think  a  moment :  here  is  a  poor  lad 
torn  out  of  life  by  a  cruel  accident  just  when  life  is  at 
its  sweetest  with  him.  He  surely  needed  more  than 
most  men  something  to  help  him  die,  to  make  him 
feel  in  dying  that  life  was  not  a  hideous  mistake. 
It  would  be  just  like  Jesus  to  come  to  such  a  dying 
boy.  He  would  say :  'The  saints  can  do  without  Me, 
they've  had  Me  all  the  time,  and  they  have  the  faith 
which  believes  without  sight,  anyway.  But  this 
poor  broken  life,  this  boy  smitten  in  his  prime, 
he  needs  a  Hand  to  help  him  on  the  dark  road,  an 
assurance  that  all  is  well.  So  he  shall  see  Me  stand- 
ing at  the  gate  of  death  when  it  uncloses.' ' 

"Then  you  think  it  was  all  real?"  said  Gaunt,  in  a 
low  voice.  "Why,  if  I  could  think  that,  it  would 
alter  all  the  world  for  me." 

"And  why  not?"  said  Palmer. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Palmer  spoke 
again,  as  a  man  soliloquizing  with  himself. 

"Of  course  it's  all  hallucination  on  the  premises 
you  uphold — 

"Far  hence  He  lies 
In  that  lone  Syrian  town, 
And  on  His  grave,  with  silent  eyes, 
The  Syrian  stars  look  down; 


THE    GHOSTLY   DAWN  95 

and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  Jesus  is  dead — and 
death  ends  all.  They  buried  Him,  and  His  bones 
are  dust,  and  He  has  no  more  a  living  place  among 
men  than  the  men  of  the  Stone  Age  have. 

"That  is  your  position.  It  was  mine  once.  From 
the  rational  and  materialistic  point  of  view  there  is 
no  other. 

"But  suppose  we  begin  the  story  at  the  other  end, 
and  read  it  without  prepossession  and  prejudice. 
Well,  this  is  what  I  see.  First  of  all,  man  getting 
more  and  more  of  God  into  him  as  his  soul  enlarges, 
his  spiritual  capacity  expands.  And  this  means 
that  man  gets  more  and  more  of  the  power  of  eternal 
life  into  him,  for  this  is  eternal  life,  to  know  God. 
It  takes  ages  upon  ages  to  work  out  this  new  con- 
sciousness. The  Egyptians  were  probably  the  first 
to  realize  it.  They  built  up  a  wonderful  system  of 
religion,  the  entire  basis  of  which  was  the  conviction 
of  some  elements  in  man  which  survived  death.  Then 
came  the  Hebrews,  who  spoiled  the  Egyptians  in 
more  senses  than  one,  for  they  stole  from  them  their 
most  vital  ideas  of  religion.  But  the  Hebrews  were 
too  gross  to  believe  thoroughly  in  the  survival  of 
the  soul.  So  they  built  up  a  religion  which  was 
adapted  to  the  practical  needs  of  daily  life — and 
beyond  that  lay  Sheol,  the  house  of  darkness,  where 
men  cannot  praise  God.  Yet  through  all  this  mate- 
rialism of  religion  the  Egyptian  ideals  survive.  The 
light  grows.  Voice  after  voice  affirms  that  there 
is  some  indestructible  element  in  man — for  God  is  all 


96        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

the  time  flowing  more  and  more  into  man,  and  man 
is  becoming  more  and  more  conscious  that  he  is  in 
some  strange  way  an  incarnation  of  God. 

"Then  comes  One  who  says  He  has  found  the 
Great  Secret — He  is  the  authentic  incarnation  of 
God. 

"It  is  a  tremendous  claim;  the  majority  of  men 
ridicule  it,  as  was  natural;  a  few  believe.  Those 
who  ridicule  it  are  gross  men,  who  are  content  with 
their  portion  in  this  life;  those  who  believe  it  are 
spiritual  people,  who  have  within  their  own  natures 
elements  which  make  the  claim  of  Jesus  probable. 

"One  thing  at  least  is  certain:  all  things  fit  to- 
gether marvellously  to  support  the  claim  of  Jesus. 
That  claim,  put  in  modern  language,  is  simply  this, 
that  He  has  more  of  God  in  Him  than  mortal  ever 
had  before — that  God  finds  in  Him  an  unimpeded 
channel,  and  that  God  is,  therefore,  able  to  act 
through  Him  with  a  completeness  never  attained  be- 
fore. And  all  things,  I  say,  fit  together  marvellously 
in  support  of  that  claim.  Jesus  does  precisely  the 
sort  of  things  which  God  might  do  if  God  were 
incarnated  in  a  Man.  He  heals  the  sick,  calms  the 
seas,  gathers  the  winds  into  His  hands;  and,  more 
marvellous  still,  in  His  ideas  of  mercy,  justice,  and 
love,  speaks  as  God  might  speak,  and  at  such  an 
elevation  of  thought  that  no  thinker  has  ever  since 
been  able  to  equal  or  surpass  Him.  Yes — that  is  the 
real  miracle,  beside  which  all  those  other  acts  which 
we  name  miraculous  are  inconsiderable.  A  peasant 


THE    GHOSTLY    DAWN  97 

out  of  Galilee,  unlettered,  suddenly  steps  upon  the 
throne  of  human  thought,  the  supreme  eminence, 
and  speaks  as  God  might  have  spoken." 

Palmer  paused  a  moment.  There  was  a  look  upon 
his  face  which  Gaunt  had  never  seen  before — a  with- 
drawn look,  as  of  one  who  hears  music  inaudible  to 
others,  one  who  listens  and  strains  forward  listening. 

When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  had  a  deeper  note, 
a  low,  vibrating  note,  that  thrilled  his  listener. 

"And  then  He  died.  He  was  slain  by  evil  men. 
All  His  goodness  had  gone  for  nothing.  And  a  few 
people  who  had  loved  Him  took  up  the  poor  broken 
body,  and  hid  it  in  a  safe  tomb,  and  that  was  the 
end.  Gaunt,  was  it  the  end?  In  the  nature  of  things 
could  it  be  the  end  ? 

"Not  if  we  admit  the  truth  of  what  I  have  already 
said.  Here  is  a  Man  in  whom  God  was  present,  in 
a  degree  never  before  known  in  human  history. 
Everybody  felt  it  who  came  in  contact  with  Him — 
His  disciples,  His  enemies,  His  judges,  and  crowds 
of  poor  distressed  people  whom  He  had  helped.  It's 
not  a  question  of  theology,  it's  something  a  man 
feels.  And  remember  that  the  essential  fact  in  all 
this  strange  life  is  that  Jesus  had  carried  the  spirit- 
uality of  man  to  its  furthest  possible  limit.  He  had 
outgrown  the  physical  long  before  His  death;  He 
moves  with  the  tranquillity  and  freedom  of  a  disem- 
bodied spirit  along  the  last  tragic  paths,  and  awe 
falls  upon  men  as  they  watch  Him.  Now  what 
would  you  expect  to  happen?  Precisely  what  did 


98        A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

happen,  or  what  is  alleged  to  have  happened.  For 
once  more  the  whole  story  is  fitted  together  with  a 
skill  which  no  human  invention  could  have  com- 
passed. It  is  absolutely  logical  on  the  premises  that 
man  is  more  than  a  body,  and  that  Jesus  had  as- 
serted the  life  of  the  spirit  in  men  in  its  fullest  form. 
For  the  spirit  now  triumphs.  It  survives  death.  It 
is  an  indestructible  personality,  capable  of  manifest- 
ing itself  to  human  eyes.  All  that  the  Egyptian 
had  asserted  as  true,  all  that  the  most  pious  minds 
of  all  ages  had  believed,  is  vindicated  in  the  actual 
resurrection  of  a  Person  from  the  depths  of  the 
grave.  And  the  story  is  believed,  not  only  for  the 
testimony  which  supports  it,  but  for  a  much  more 
invincible  reason,  that  all  who  are  capable  of  form- 
ing a  just  idea  of  the  personality  of  Jesus  feel  that 
the  story  ought  to  be  true.  It  is  demanded  by  the 
nature  of  the  life  of  Jesus. 

"So  I  have  come  to  think,  and  hence  I  have  no 
difficulty  in  believing  that  that  dying  boy  did  actu- 
ally see  Jesus  just  before  his  eyes  closed.  I  tell  you 
Jesus  is  alive.  I  know  it.  There  are  times  when  I 
am  more  conscious  of  His  presence  than  I  have  ever 
been  of  the  presence  of  any  human  creature.  It  has 
not  been  a  matter  of  suggestion — a  book,  a  picture, 
a  chord  of  music,  stirring  the  devout  or  poetic  sense 
in  me — nothing  of  that  kind.  It  has  come  suddenly, 
unexpectedly,  when  I  was  thinking  of  quite  different 
things — the  sense  of  a  Presence,  of  Some  One  near 
me,  touching  me  with  a  gentle  pressure,  enfolding  me 


THE    GHOSTLY    DAWN  99 

for  an  instant.  It's  like  a  child  waking  in  the  night 
with  the  sense  that  his  mother  has  kissed  him  in  the 
dark.  The  child  says,  'Why,  that  must  have  been 
mother,  no  one  else  would  have  kissed  me  like  that/ 
I  say,  'That  must  have  been  Jesus.  No  one  else 
could  have  thrilled  me  with  such  awe  and  happi- 
ness/ But  who  can  describe  these  things  ?  I  am  al- 
most ashamed  of  having  tried." 

"You  should  not  be,"  said  Gaunt.  "If  I  felt  as 
you  feel,  I  would  publish  my  experience  on  the  house- 
tops." 

"So  you  will  one  day.  Speech  is  your  portion, 
silence  is  mine.  You  are  the  only  person  to  whom 
I  have  ever  spoken  in  this  way.  Shall  I  tell  you  just 
why  I  did  it?" 

"Tell  me." 

"Because  you  have  come  to  a  point  where  you 
have  really  got  a  vision  of  Jesus,  but  it  is  as  yet  only 
the  Jesus  of  practical  service.  You  see  that  earthly 
life  in  all  its  sweet  compassion  and  simplicity,  and 
you  are  nobly  emulous  to  imitate  it.  That  is  a  great 
step — it  has  already  changed  your  whole  character 
and  temper.  But  you'll  find  that  you  can't  stop 
there.  You  can't  live  that  life  by  imitation.  You 
can  only  do  so  by  union.  You  must  feel  that  Jesus 
is  alive  for  you — that  He  is  really  with  you  alway. 
Do  you  remember  those  lines  of  Le  Gallienne's : 

"Loud  mockers  of  the  angry  street 
Say,  Christ  is  crucified  again; 
Twice  pierce  1  those  Gospel-bearing  feet, 


ioo     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

Twice  broken  that  great  heart  in  vain. 

I  smile,  and  to  myself  I  say, 

Why,  Christ  talks  with  me  all  the  day. 

That  expresses  what  I  mean." 

"I  wish  I  could  feel  it,  but  I  don't,  I  don't." 

"Well,  don't  try  to  force  the  feeling.  Don't  be 
in  a  hurry.  The  hour  may  be  nearer  than  you 
think." 

So  it  was  that  Gaunt  stood  in  the  ghostly  dawn, 
waiting  for  a  revelation,  for  the  emergence  of  some- 
thing, he  scarce  knew  what,  out  of  the  gray  mists. 

And  though  he  knew  it  not,  the  mists  were  slowly 
lifting  all  the  time,  the  day  was  beginning  to  break, 
and  already  through  the  vague  light  the  Master  was 
approaching  him. 


VIII 
A   RETIRED   PROPHET 

THE  mail  one  morning  brought  Gaunt  a  let- 
ter which  greatly  interested  him.    It  was 
written  in  a  cramped  and  feeble  hand  and 
was  very  brief.    It  was  signed,  Paul  Gordon. 

Paul  Gordon  was,  as  might  have  been  guessed 
from  the  handwriting,  a  very  old  man.  His  history 
was  remarkable.  At  forty  years  of  age  he  had  been 
known  far  and  wide  as  one  of  the  most  brilliant 
preachers  in  America.  From  his  pulpit  he  had  gone 
to  a  professor's  chair  in  a  great  theological  sem- 
inary, somewhat  to  the  dismay  of  his  friends,  who 
regarded  the  step  as  a  mistake.  The  fact  was,  how- 
ever, that  Gordon  had  suddenly  discovered  that  the 
foundations  of  his  faith  were  insecure.  He  had  been 
caught  in  the  rising  tide  of  German  destructive  crit- 
icism, and  found  himself  defenceless.  When  the 
professorship  of  Hebrew  had  been  offered  him  in  the 
seminary,  he  hailed  the  opportunity  of  escape  from  a 
position  which  he  had  come  to  regard  as  untenable. 
In  his  new  position  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  thorough 
investigation  of  the  sources  of  his  faith,  and  as  time 
went  on  was  less  and  less  heard  of  as  a  preacher. 
At  fifty  his  star  again  arose  above  the  horizon.  He 

101 


\02      A*  PPJOPHET  IN    BABYLON 

published  a  book,  characterized  by  the  most  daring 
statements  of  Biblical  criticism,  statements  which 
had  long  been  among  the  commonplaces  of  German 
theology,  but  which  were  entirely  novel  to  his  Amer- 
ican readers.  The  result  was  a  famous  heresy  trial. 
For  three  years  the  name  of  Paul  Gordon  was  on 
everybody's  lips.  Those  who  knew  him  best  rushed 
to  his  defence.  Many  of  these  ardent  friends  did  not 
profess  to  endorse  his  views,  but  they  were  enthu- 
siastic in  their  admiration  for  his  character.  They 
might  well  be,  for  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find 
any  man  among  the  churches  who  lived  a  life  of 
nobler  sacrifice  and  service  than  Gordon.  He  gave 
the  larger  part  of  his  income,  and  devoted  every 
moment  of  time  which  he  could  spare  from  his 
duties,  to  work  among  the  very  poorest  classes  of 
New  York.  One  reason  why  he  had  ceased  to  be 
known  as  a  popular  preacher  was  that  he  refused 
to  leave  this  work.  During  all  the  progress  df  the 
great  controversy  Gordon  might  have  been  dis- 
covered almost  any  night  in  a  dingy  mission  hall 
near  the  river,  doing  work  that  very  few  persons  in 
that  day  attempted  to  do  among  a  motley  company 
of  drunkards,  thieves,  and  harlots.  "If  he  thought 
like  Socrates,  he  lived  like  Christ,"  one  of  his  friends 
said  of  him,  and  the  epigram  was  long  remem- 
bered. 

It  was  soon  proved,  however,  that  no  considera- 
tion of  the  purity  and  nobleness  of  Gordon's  char- 
acter was  able  to  soften  the  judgment  of  the  men 


A   RETIRED    PROPHET  103 

whose  hostility  he  had  aroused.  They  pressed  the 
case  against  him  with  remorseless  logic.  After  three 
years  of  excited  struggle,  during  which  Gordon  him- 
self was  the  only  man  who  preserved  his  equanimity 
of  temper,  he  was  formally  deposed  and  driven  from 
the  Church.  For  a  dozen  years  longer  he  published 
books,  and  went  on  with  his  mission  work.  In  his 
later  books  the  controversial  spirit  had  almost  dis- 
appeared. They  were  books  of  spiritual  insight, 
inculcating  in  the  simplest  language  the  unchange- 
able elements  of  all  religions.  But  as  his  work  in 
controversy  had  made  him  famous,  so  the  cessation 
of  that  work  marked  his  relegation  to  obscurity. 
His  books  gradually  ceased  to  be  read,  and  his  name 
was  forgotten.  In  his  sixtieth  year  a  severe  illness 
made  it  impossible  for  him  to  continue  his  mission 
work.  He  retired  to  a  tiny  home  on  the  Hudson, 
where  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  placid  pursuits  of 
old  age.  Now  and  again  his  name  was  heard  in 
clerical  circles,  and  as  the  old  bitterness  died  away, 
he  came  to  be  regarded  with  admiration  by  the  few 
who  knew  him.  But  he  rarely  appeared  in  public, 
sought  no  society,  and  was  content  to  forget  the 
world  and  be  forgotten  by  it.  Gaunt  had  never 
seen  him  but  once.  He  had  once  heard  the  old  man 
speak,  and  retained  a  vivid  picture  of  a  patriarch, 
calm,  dignified,  almost  majestic  in  appearance,  with 
long  white  hair  falling  on  his  shoulders,  whose  voice 
had  a  kind  of  musical  magnetism  in  it,  which  made 
his  least  word  seem  important.  That  was  many 


104     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

years  ago,  and  as  Gaunt  read  the  letter  which  lay 
on  his  breakfast  table,  he  realized  that  Paul  Gordon 
must  now  be  a  man  upon  the  verge  of  eighty. 

"I  have  heard  of  you,"  the  letter  ran,  "and  though 
I  have  never  met  you,  have  found  myself  unusually 
interested  in  your  career.  There  may  be  some 
things  which  an  old  man  might  say  to  you,  which 
you  might  not  be  unwilling  to  hear.  I  am  presump- 
tuous enough  to  think  that  I  might  even  help  you,  if 
you  would  let  me  do  so.  Come  out  and  see  me. 
I  am  always  at  home,  and  shall  always  welcome 
you." 

"That's  a  most  interesting  letter/'  said  Gaunt,  as 
he  handed  it  to  his  wife. 

Margaret  read  it  slowly.  There  had  been  a  time 
when  Gaunt  would  not  have  thought  it  worth  while 
to  show  her  such  a  letter.  The  change  in  their  rela- 
tionship was  marked  by  the  fact  that  he  now  con- 
sulted her  on  everything,  and  in  these  constant 
exchanges  of  confidence  her  heart  had  found  a  new 
and  delightful  stimulant  to  affection. 

"Well,"  she  said,  as  she  put  the  letter  down, 
"why  don't  you  go  out  to  Riverside  to-day  and  see 
Dr.  Gordon?  It's  a  lovely  day,  you  are  tired  and 
need  a  change.  It'll  do  you  good." 

"I'll  go  if  you'll  go  with  me,  dear." 

"Very  well,  it's  a  bargain.  Let  us  start  at  once 
before  the  freshness  of  the  day  is  over.  I'm  about 
tired  of  the  house." 

"That's  a  good  thing,"  said  Gaunt,  with  a  boyish 


A   RETIRED    PROPHET  105 

laugh,  "because  it's  pretty  certain  that  we  shan't 
be  in  this  house  much  longer.  It's  a  wholesome  dis- 
pensation of  Providence  that  you  should  begin  to  be 
weaned  from  what  you  can't  have." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  say  that,"  she  laughed  back.  "Why, 
you're  as  bad  as  the  orthodox  commentators  you  are 
always  abusing,  who  read  all  sorts  of  inferences  into 
plain  meanings.  But  seriously,  dear,  I'm  about 
through  with  this  house.  There  are  only  two  of  us, 
and  yet  we  must  needs  have  a  dozen  rooms  to  keep 
clean,  and  two  hired  girls  and  a  man  to  look  after, 
and  my  weekly  bills  are  growing  frightful!  It 
really  doesn't  seem  worth  while.  If  it  goes  on  much 
longer,  I  believe  I'll  be  a  convert  to  the  simple  life." 

"And  that's  where  the  Providence  comes  in,  don't 
you  see?  I'm  thinking  of  two  rooms  in  a  slum. 
The  bankbook  is  getting  low.  There's  no  knowing 
what  we  may  come  to." 

"Well,"  she  answered,  "I  don't  know  that  I 
should  object,  not  if  it  was  a  real,  nice,  healthy  slum. 
There's  a  Settlement  girl  I  met  the  other  day,  who 
took  me  to  her  rooms,  and  they  were  a  wonderful 
sight.  I  think  they  were  about  eight  feet  square, 
each  of  them;  and  they  were  all  white  paint  and 
bright  chintz,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  with  a  stove 
you  could  put  in  your  pocket,  and  a  lovely  collapsi- 
ble bath  which  I  think  she  used  as  a  bed,  and  all 
sorts  of  tiny  cupboards  wherever  there  was  a  spare 
corner,  and  everything  as  neat  as  a  new  pin.  I  for- 
get what  she  paid  for  them,  some  ridiculously  small 


106      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

sum,  but  I  know  she  sort  of  pitied  me  for  living  in  a 
twelve-roomed  house,  and  really  made  me  feel  that 
I  was  a  fool  for  my  pains.  And  her  friends  lived 
in  Forty-eighth  Street,  I  think  she  said,  so  she  had 
data  for  her  comparison. " 

"Why,  it  sounds  quite  idyllic." 

"Well,  according  to  her  account,  it  was.  She 
said  she  had  got  more  thrills  out  of  that  narrow 
street  crowded  with  poor  working  folk  than  she'll 
ever  get  in  Fifth  Avenue.  She  was  dying  of  re- 
spectability in  Forty-eighth  Street,  literally  and 
physically  dying  of  dulness,  but  from  the  moment 
she  went  to  live  in  those  tiny  rooms,  and  tried  to  do 
something  for  the  working-girls  of  the  neighbour- 
hood, she  got  thrilled  back  into  vitality.  It  was 
rather  a  good  phrase  that — 'thrilled  back  into  vital- 
ity'— I  suppose  that  is  why  I  remember  it.  But 
come,  if  we're  going  to  Riverside,  we  must  make 
haste." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  started.  It  was,  as  Mar- 
garet had  said,  a  lovely  morning,  one  of  those  days 
of  bright  sunshine  and  crisp  air  which  make  New 
Yorkers  forget  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  winter. 
They  were  both  in  high  spirits,  for  the  air  had  an 
almost  intoxicating  quality  in  it.  It  was  the  sort  of 
day  which  gives  men  courage;  which  fills  them  with 
a  happy  sense  of  the  benignity  of  Nature  and  makes 
them  move  gaily  as  to  the  sound  of  trumpets.  It 
was  a  long  time  since  Gaunt  had  felt  so  happy.  No 
memory  of  the  annoyances  he  had  endured  remained 


A    RETIRED    PROPHET  107 

with  him;  he  felt  as  though  he  had  recaptured  his 
youth,  and  the  careless  mirth  of  youth. 

So,  as  they  went,  they  talked  together  in  high 
good-humour  as  people  might  who  had  never  known 
a  care.  They  let  their  fancy  range  over  the  picture 
they  had  conjured  up  of  life  in  two  rooms. 

"I  believe  it  would  really  be  the  greatest  fun  in 
the  world,"  said  Margaret.  "Besides,  think  what 
a  fine  moral  discipline  it  would  be.  We  should  be 
bound  to  behave  beautifully  to  each  other  when 
neither  of  us  could  lose  sight  of  the  other  for  a 
single  moment.  Depend  upon  it,  the  real  cause  of 
most  unhappy  marriages  is  that  people  are  able  to 
sulk  in  separate  rooms  by  themselves." 

"And  think  of  the  intellectual  discipline  of  living 
in  a  house  so  small  there  isn't  room  in  it  to  change 
your  mind,"  he  retorted. 

"Nor  your  clothes,"  she  said.  "That's  a  much 
more  serious  problem  for  a  woman." 

"That  would  be  an  incentive  to  economy." 

"If  you  would  do  me  the  honour  to  audit  my 
household  accounts,  a  thing  you've  never  done  yet, 
you'd  find  incentive  enough  for  economy,  I  promise 
you.  Do  you  know,  dear,  you're  a  very  bold  man? 
You  are  making  out  to  live  without  visible  means  of 
support." 

"Oh,  it's  not  as  bad  as  that,  is  it?  I'm  a  better 
economist  than  you  suppose.  Quite  seriously,  I've 
thought  the  whole  thing  out,  but  I  didn't  mean  to 
say  anything  to  you  just  now.  I  think  if  we  give 


io8      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

up  the  house — we  can  easily  sublet  it,  you  know — 
and  go  into  quiet  rooms  somewhere,  we  can  stand  a 
pretty  long  siege.  I  can  always  earn  enough  by  my 
pen  to  find  us  bread." 

"And  why  didn't  you  like  to  speak  to  me,  dear? 
Did  you  think  I  wasn't  willing?" 

"Not  exactly  that.  But  I  thought  it  would  come 
hard  on  you." 

"It  would  be  a  good  deal  harder  on  me  to  suppose 
you  thought  I  wasn't  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice 
you  wished  me  to  make.  Besides,  I'm  not  so  sure 
that  it  is  a  sacrifice.  I  feel  very  much  like  that  Set- 
tlement girl :  I've  grown  dull  with  respectability,  and 
I  wouldn't  object  to  get  thrilled  again  into  vitality. 
I'm  suffering  from  fatty  degeneration  of  the  soul." 

"And  I'm  afflicted  with  an  incipient  attack  of  love- 
making.  Why,  Margaret,  I  don't  believe  I've  had 
such  a  dear  foolish  talk  with  you  since  the  old  days 
in  the  woods  when  I  was  courting  you." 

"Does  it  seem  so  very  long  ago  ?"  said  Margaret, 
demurely. 

At  that  moment  they  arrived  at  Riverside,  and 
were  soon  climbing  the  hill  in  quest  of  Gordon's 
house.  They  found  it  at  last,  a  very  plain  frame 
house,  with  a  little  grove  of  trees  at  the  back,  and 
a  wonderful  view  of  the  river,  and  the  brownish- 
gray  battlements  of  the  Palisades  in  front.  As  they 
drew  near  they  saw  Gordon  himself,  slowly  walk- 
ing up  and  down  the  gravel  path  that  divided  the 
small  lawn  from  the  house.  He  wore  a  long  black 


A    RETIRED    PROPHET  109 

cloak,  over  the  collar  of  which  his  white  hair 
streamed;  he  was  evidently  lost  in  some  profound 
meditation.  There  was  a  certain  grandeur  of  lone- 
liness and  detachment  about  that  solitary  figure 
which  they  both  felt  instinctively.  He  moved  slowly, 
yet  with  a  firm  step  which  declared  unabated  vigour. 
But  the  chief  impression  he  created  was  of  singular 
and  complete  calm.  It  was  hardly  possible  to  asso- 
ciate him  with  any  thought  of  a  tumultuous  world, 
still  less  to  imagine  him  as  a  man  around  whom  that 
tumult  had  once  raged.  He  looked  like  a  seer  who 
had  always  trodden  in  the  high  silences,  and  dwelt 
among  the  lonely  places  of  life. 

Gordon  heard  their  footsteps  on  the  gravel  path, 
and  turned  round.  That  impression  of  singular 
calmness  which  had  already  been  created  was  justi- 
fied by  his  face.  It  was  a  face  moulded  after  a 
classic  design,  in  fine  pure  lines.  The  nose  was 
straight,  the  mouth  firm,  and  yet  tender,  the  fore- 
head only  contradicted  the  Greek  ideal  of  beauty 
by  its  unusual  loftiness.  But  the  chief  feature  was 
the  eyes.  These  were  of  a  curious  shade  of  gray- 
ish blue,  quiet  and  penetrating,  a  little  dulled  by  the 
film  of  years,  but  still  unusually  bright.  They  cre- 
ated a  strong  sense  of  self-absorption,  as  if  their 
vision  were  inward  rather  than  outward;  eyes  that 
brooded  over  their  own  depths,  that  saw  hidden 
things,  and  things  that  were  far  away. 

The  old  man  greeted  his  visitors  with  a  stately 
grace. 


no      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"It's  good  of  you  to  come  so  soon,"  he  said.  "Al- 
though I  am  an  old  man  I  have  never  reconciled 
myself  to  the  procrastinating  spirit  of  age.  I  like  to 
do  at  once  the  thing  I  mean  to  do.  I  discern  the 
same  temperament  in  you,  and  it  should  help  us  to  be 
friends." 

"I  count  it  one  of  the  privileges  of  my  life  to  have 
received  your  invitation,"  said  Gaunt. 

They  walked  up  and  down  the  little  terrace  for  a 
time,  talking  of  common  things,  and  feeling  their 
way  toward  more  intimate  relationship.  At  noon  a 
very  simple  lunch  was  served. 

"I  lunch  early,"  said  the  old  man,  "because  I  like 
to  give  all  the  rest  of  the  day  to  study.  At  one 
time  I  did  all  my  work  in  the  morning,  but  as  I  have 
grown  older  I  find  that  the  machinery  of  the  mind  is 
a  little  slower  in  getting  started.  So  I  spend  my 
mornings  in  the  open  air,  and  accumulate  the  vigour 
I  need  for  work  in  that  way." 

"Then  you  still  work?"  said  Gaunt. 

"In  some  ways  I  work  harder  than  I  ever  did," 
said  Gordon.  "I've  a  theory  that  the  real  life  of 
man  is  the  life  of  the  intellect  and  spirit.  Where 
this  is  strong,  the  physical  life  is  correspondingly 
strong.  The  men  who  die  early  are  usually  men 
of  imperfectly  vitalized  minds  and  souls." 

"In  that  case  you  have  yet  a  long  life  before  you, 
Dr.  Gordon." 

"I  hope  so,"  he  answered  simply.  "I  have  no 
patience  with  the  common  talk  of  good  people  about 


A    RETIRED    PROPHET  in 

wanting  to  go  to  heaven.  It  is  the  insincerest  kind 
of  twaddle.  No  healthy-minded  man  dies  except 
with  infinite  reluctance.  The  world  is  much  too 
interesting  for  any  man  to  wish  to  leave  it  who  can 
be  of  any  use  in  it.  Do  you  remember  Goethe's 
scornful  question,  'Why  should  a  man  who  has  work 
to  do  want  to  ramble  off  into  Eternity  ?' ' 

"No,  it  is  new  to  me." 

"Well,  it  is  worth  remembering,  for  it  contains  a 
very  wholesome  philosophy  of  life.  Of  course,  it's 
not  complete,  for  Goethe  with  all  his  vast  efficiency 
was  a  pagan.  He  never  grasped  the  truth  that  what 
the  Christian  calls  eternal  life  is  a  real  thing,  only 
it  begins  here  and  now.  This  is  eternal  life,  to  know 
the  only  true  God  and  Jesus  Christ  whom  He  has 
sent/  not  something  distant  and  vague,  but  a  thing 
that  is.  To  the  man  who  has  once  grasped  that 
truth,  old  age  is  impossible." 

Gordon's  face  glowed  as  he  spoke,  and  Gaunt, 
looking  upon  it,  recognized  the  truest  commentary 
upon  his  words.  The  mass  of  white  hair  that 
crowned  the  brow  only  served  to  accentuate  the 
freshness  and  eagerness  of  the  face,  which  pre- 
served, in  spite  of  the  lines  drawn  across  it  by  the 
finger  of  Thought,  an  element  of  indestructible 
vitality. 

When  the  lunch  was  over,  Gordon  at  once  intro- 
duced the  theme  of  Gaunt's  recent  doings.  He  in- 
vited Gaunt  to  explain  his  aims  and  purposes.  Gaunt, 
encouraged  by  his  sympathy,  opened  his  heart  freely. 


U2      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

He  closed  with  a  half-indignant  and  half-humorous 
description  of  Dr.  Jordan's  attitude  toward  him. 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Gordon.  "You  can't  be 
angry  with  him;  he  only  did  according  to  his  na- 
ture. I  think  I  met  Jordan  once;  at  all  events  I 
know  his  type  pretty  well.  It  is  a  type  bred  by  the 
present  condition  of  the  Church,  in  which  the  petty 
diplomatist  counts  for  much  more  than  the  prophet. 
You  know  the  old  satirical  epigram,  that  the  world 
consists  of  three  classes,  men,  women,  and  parsons. 
What  it  crudely  expresses  is  that  the  minister  is  an 
emasculated  person,  and  this  is  often  true.  He  is 
made  too  comfortable,  nursed  and  dandled  on  the 
laps  of  admiring  coteries,  and  so  sheltered  from  the 
world  that  he  is  totally  unacquainted  with  the  reali- 
ties of  life.  It  is  only  what  might  be  expected  that 
he  should  come  to  shirk  realities  of  all  kinds — the 
realities  of  thought  as  well  as  life — and  when  he 
comes  into  contact  with  a  real  man  he  as  naturally 
hates  him,  and  wants  to  crush  him. 

"But  don't  let  us  wander  into  personalities/'  he 
continued,  "and  above  all  let  us  avoid  satire,  for 
satire  is  a  sort  of  moral  astigmatism  which  fatally 
distorts  all  the  real  values  of  things.  I  learned  that 
lesson  a  long  time  ago  in  my  own  troubles.  My 
first  impulse  was  to  say  and  write  satirical  things 
about  my  opponents,  for  I  saw  how  easy  it  would 
be  to  cover  them  with  derision.  But  I  soon  found 
that  such  a  temper  harmed  me  more  than  it  did 
them.  I  lost  my  own  tranquillity  in  disturbing 


A    RETIRED    PROPHET  113 

theirs,  and  the  clear  stream  of  my  own  thoughts 
and  purposes  grew  turbid  and  discoloured.  The 
only  way  for  a  man  to  do  any  truly  great  work  in 
the  world,  is  for  him  to  go  straight  forward  to  his 
goal,  paying  no  attention  to  either  praise  or  blame, 
as  long  as  he  is  sure  of  his  purpose.  Well,  then, 
what  is  it  you  purpose?  That  is  the  only  matter 
worth  thought." 

Thereupon  Gaunt  began  to  sketch  the  plan  which 
he  desired  to  follow.  He  did  not  intend  to  be  driven 
out  of  the  Church;  he  would  reform  it  from  within. 
He  would  make  his  church  the  rallying  point  of  all 
classes,  rich  and  poor  alike.  He  would  substitute 
the  law  of  service  for  the  yoke  of  creeds,  as  the 
sole  test  of  membership.  He  spoke  with  conviction, 
the  very  need  for  positive  statement  and  exact  defi- 
nition giving  a  form  to  many  thoughts  within  him 
which  had  hitherto  been  inchoate  and  unco-ordinate. 

The  old  man  listened  attentively.  When  Gaunt 
had  done,  there  was  a  long  silence.  Then  Gordon 
said,  in  a  gentle  voice,  "My  dear  young  friend,  it 
can't  be  done." 

"What  can't  be  done  ?"  said  Gaunt. 

"Why,  this:  you  can't  reform  the  Church  from 
within.  Think  a  moment,  and  you  will  see  that  I 
am  right.  Jesus  wished  to  do  it.  He  was  a  child  of 
the  Church.  He  loved  it.  He  taught  in  its  syna- 
gogues. He  repeatedly  said  that  He  came  not  to 
destroy  the  law  of  Moses,  but  to  fulfil  it.  But  even 
He  found  the  task  impossible,  and  the  answer  of 


U4     A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

the  Jewish  Church  to  His  sweet  reasonableness  was 
the  Cross.  Luther  tried  it :  he  also  found  it  impossi- 
ble, and  the  wine  of  new  truth  had  to  be  put  into  new 
bottles.  Wesley  tried  it.  He  did  not  wish  to  break 
with  the  Anglican  Church,  and  he  died  in  the  delu- 
sion that  he  had  not  done  so.  The  result  proved  the 
magnitude  of  his  mistake.  He  had  created  a  power 
which  he  could  not  control,  and  Methodism  took  its 
own  way,  and  became  a  church  in  its  own  right. 
The  story  is  always  the  same.  The  reason  is  that 
every  new  truth  must  grow  by  its  own  roots.  You 
can't  gather  grapes  of  thistles." 

"Then  what  would  you  have  me  do  ?"  said  Gaunt. 

"Do  just  what  you  are  doing.  Cherish  your  illu- 
sion as  long  as  you  can,  for  it  is  a  generous  illusion. 
Neither  I,  nor  any  other  man,  can  at  the  present 
stage  make  you  conscious  of  its  impossibility.  It  is 
only  the  event  that  can  teach  you  this.  I  myself  once 
had  the  same  programme.  I  imagined  the  Church 
rallying  to  me,  declaring  for  freedom,  reconstituting 
itself,  evolving  itself  from  within  into  a  new  form. 
Later  on  I  discovered  the  invincible  conservatism 
of  human  nature.  I  spent  some  bitter  hours  over 
that  discovery.  Then,  at  last,  I  saw  that  the  old 
day  must  die  before  the  new  day  could  be  born.  It's 
poor  work  adapting  old  machinery  to  new  needs;  the 
cheapest  way  is  to  fling  the  old  to  the  scrap-heap 
at  once,  and  be  done  with  it,  and  give  the  new  a  fair 
chance/' 

"Then  you  despair  of  the  Church?" 


A    RETIRED    PROPHET  115 

"In  its  present  form,  yes ;  of  its  ultimate  triumph, 
no.  For  my  part,  I  would  gladly  vote  for  the  total 
abolition  of  the  Church  in  all  its  existing  forms, 
and  begin  right  over  again  from  the  foundation. 
Anyway,  it  will  have  to  be  done  before  long  if  the 
Church  is  to  survive.  For  the  Church  in  its  pres- 
ent form  is  on  its  death-bed,  with  lights  and  incense 
and  moving  music,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  but 
the  odour  of  corruption  and  decomposition  is  in  the 
air.  The  world  knows  perfectly  well  what  is  going 
on.  I  know  nothing  more  pathetic  than  the  angry 
wonder  so  often  expressed  by  all  kinds  of  ecclesiastic 
people  over  the  fact  that  the  mass  of  the  people 
won't  go  to  church.  Surely  the  inference  should 
be  plain;  it  is  to  every  one  save  the  ecclesiastic.  It 
is  that  life  has  gone  out  of  the  churches.  If  the 
Church  were  alive,  people  would  not  be  able  to  stay 
away  from  it." 

The  short  winter  afternoon  was  waning  fast.  The 
old  man  had  risen  from  his  chair  as  he  talked;  he 
stood  against  the  window,  and  the  red  light  of  the 
setting  sun  shone  full  upon  his  face.  It  was  as 
though  the  face  itself  radiated  flame,  and  the  red 
sunset  light  clothed  him  in  a  prophet's  robe. 

"Pray  don't  think  I  am  a  pessimist/'  he  added. 
"There  is  no  man  more  hopeful  than  I.  And  my 
hope  for  the  future  rises  high,  indeed,  when  I  see 
younger  men,  like  yourself,  willing  to  face  poverty 
for  principle.  Though  that,  of  course, — poverty,  I 
mean, — is  the  least  part  of  the  matter.  Any  man 


u6      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

who  lives  a  real  inner  life  should  be  careless  of  ex- 
ternals. It  is  perhaps  the  best,  and  certainly  the 
most  exacting,  test  of  whether  a  man's  inner  life 
is  real — have  externals  ceased  to  count  for  much 
with  him?" 

Involuntarily  the  eyes  of  both  Gaunt  and  his  wife 
took  in  the  aspects  of  the  little  room.  There  was 
not  a  single  unnecessary  article  of  furniture  in  it. 
All  was  bare  and  simple  as  a  monk's  cell,  and  yet  a 
certain  dignity  was  there,  the  dignity  that  is  the 
expression  of  austerity.  And  against  the  sunset 
light  rose  the  imposing  figure  of  this  old  man,  who 
asked  nothing  of  the  world  but  the  freedom  of  his 
own  soul,  and  had  refused  all  those  gifts  of  the 
world  which  would  interfere  with  that  sublime  lib- 
erty. And  in  the  same  instant  they  both  recollected 
by  a  common  sympathy  of  thought  the  houses  with 
which  they  were  familiar  in  the  great  city  that  lay 
so  near — the  ostentation  of  rooms  cumbered  with 
useless  articles  which  were  significant  of  nothing 
more  than  the  power  to  spend;  the  lives  lived  within 
them,  exhausting  themselves  in  the  daily  pursuit  of 
trivialities, — and  each  felt  the  truth  of  Gordon's 
saying  that  the  least  part  of  the  struggle  they  were 
entering  on  was  the  threat  of  poverty,  for  the  pov- 
erty of  the  thinker  and  the  worker  was  a  thing  of 
dignity  to  which  wealth  could  not  attain. 

Gordon  accompanied  them,  bareheaded,  to  the 
road. 

"Come  again,  and  come  soon,"  he  said.    "Believe 


A    RETIRED    PROPHET 

me  when  I  say  that  I  am  at  your  disposal  always 
and  I  want  to  help  you  in  any  way  I  can." 

"You  have  already  helped  us  more  than  you 
know,"  said  Margaret. 

As  they  went  down  the  hill  they  felt  as  though  a 
silent  benediction  followed  them.  And  they  indeed 
walked  to  the  sound  of  trumpets,  blown  by  lips 
diviner  even  than  the  lips  of  joyous  winds  upon  a 
day  of  sunshine. 


IX 
THE  UNDERWORLD 

THE  mail  next  morning  brought  Gaunt  a 
long  letter  from  Paul  Gordon.  In  this 
letter  Gordon  said  that  he  had  never  ex- 
pected to  be  drawn  again  into  any  kind  of  public 
activity:  he  had  regarded  himself  as  having  earned 
the  right  to  rest.  But  the  conversation  with  Gaunt 
had  changed  his  mind.  He  felt  now  that  a  new 
occasion  had  arisen  which  might  rightfully  demand 
from  him  any  powers  of  service  which  might  still 
be  left  to  him.  It  was  not  clear  to  him  as  yet  what 
form  of  service  might  be  possible  to  him,  but  he 
would  like  to  come  to  New  York  and  talk  matters 
over  with  Gaunt. 

Gaunt  at  once  invited  him  to  be  his  guest,  and  a 
day  later  Gordon  arrived.  Gaunt  arranged  that 
Palmer  should  meet  him  the  same  evening  at  dinner. 
Gordon  at  once  recognized  the  sympathetic  qualities 
of  Palmer's  mind.  The  three  men  talked  far  into 
the  night.  It  was  one  of  those  delightful  talks  which 
range  easily  over  many  fields  of  thought,  touching 
various  themes  with  lightness  and  grace,  the  only 
kind  of  talk  which  deserves  the  name  of  conversa- 
tion, because  it  concerns  itself  with  ideas  over  which 
full  and  flexible  minds  can  join  in  happy  contention. 

1x8 


THE   UNDERWORLD  119 

It  was  not,  however,  till  the  next  morning  that 
Gordon  mentioned  the  subject  of  his  letter. 

"If  you  are  free  to-day/'  he  said  to  Gaunt,  "I  want 
you  to  take  a  little  pilgrimage  with  me.  I'm  not  sure 
that  you  have  yet  grasped  some  of  the  elements  of 
your  problem,  and  I  can  best  explain  them  by  a  study 
of  facts." 

"I  am  in  your  hands,"  said  Gaunt. 

"Very  good,"  said  Gordon.  "But  before  we  start 
I  warn  you  that  our  pilgrimage  will  not  be  a  pleasant 
one.  Let  me  ask  you  one  question:  do  you  know 
New  York  with  any  kind  of  exactitude  and  com- 
pleteness ?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Gaunt.  "To  tell  the  truth, 
I've  only  lately  realized  that  for  seven  years  I've 
gone  up  and  down  in  this  little  section  of  the  city, 
and  that  is  all." 

"It's  not  surprising,"  said  Gordon.  "It  is  a  com- 
mon characteristic  of  city-dwellers.  A  city  so  large 
as  New  York  or  London  is,  after  all,  only  a  series 
of  villages  joined  together  by  the  loosest  kind  of 
municipal  bond.  Men  dwell  in  their  own  villages, 
the  rich  in  one,  the  poor  in  another,  knowing  next 
to  nothing  of  each  other.  We  complain,  and  justly, 
that  when  brilliant  men  of  letters  visit  us,  and  go 
home  to  write  books  about  us,  they  invariably  con- 
vey false  impressions,  and  arrive  at  absurd  conclu- 
sions. Of  course  the  reason  is  plain.  They  see  just 
one  of  the  many  villages  of  which  New  York  con- 
sists, and  their  kind  friends  who  entertain  them  take 


120      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

particular  care  that  they  shall  not  stray  beyond  the 
bounds.  Here,  for  example,  is  an  excerpt  from  a 
recent  article  by  an  English  visitor,  which  I  thought 
worth  preserving.  Read  it." 

He  drew  from  his  pocketbook  a  carefully  folded 
press  cutting,  and  handed  it  to  Gaunt.  The  writer 
of  the  article  was  evidently  in  love  with  America. 
He  praised  indiscriminately  all  that  he  had  seen. 
According  to  his  account  there  was  no  vice  in  New 
York,  no  visible  drunkenness,  no  dire  poverty. 
Every  man  earned  excellent  wages,  and  if  he  did  not 
it  was  his  own  fault.  No  wonder  a  million  immi- 
grants flocked  every  year  to  the  harbour  of  New 
York,  recognizing  in  the  gigantic  Statue  of  Liberty, 
which  guarded  the  magnificent  waterway,  a  hand 
that  beckoned  them  to  plenty  and  wealth.  America 
alone  among  the  nations  of  the  earth  provided  a 
table  in  the  wilderness  at  which  the  starving  millions 
of  the  Old  World  found  a  welcome  and  an  in- 
heritance. And  so  forth,  through  a  thousand  words 
or  more  of  panegyric  and  indiscriminate  adulation. 

"Well?"  said  Gordon,  as  Gaunt  handed  the  paper 
back  to  him. 

"Oh,  of  course,  it's  flamboyant  nonsense,"  said 
Gaunt. 

"Exactly,"  said  Gordon.  "But  are  we  any  wiser, 
any  more  just,  any  more  ample  in  our  vision?  You 
remember  that  when  a  clerical  conference  lamented 
the  scanty  attendance  at  the  churches,  Phillips 
Brooks  naively  remarked  that  he  attached  little  im- 


THE    UNDERWORLD  121 

portance  to  their  complaints,  for  he  himself  never 
saw  an  empty  church.  Of  course  not,  but  he  forgot 
that  every  one  is  not  a  Phillips  Brooks.  Men  see 
what  they  go  out  to  see,  and  nothing  is  easier  than 
to  deny  the  existence  of  what  they  don't  want 
to  see." 

"Yes,  that's  true,"  said  Gaunt,  "and  I  take  the 
reproach  to  myself." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  reproach  you,"  said  Gor- 
don, "although  for  that  matter  the  reproach  touches 
me  as  much  as  you.  My  point  is  that  the  very  con- 
stitution of  these  great  modern  cities  makes  for 
specialized  forms  of  life.  In  a  certain  sense,  it  can- 
not be  avoided.  Men  naturally  fall  into  a  groove, 
live  in  the  company  of  their  social  equals,  and  after 
a  time  forget  that  a  universe  of  strange  things  lies 
round  about  them,  just  outside  the  groove.  But 
with  you  and  me  it  should  be  different.  We  are 
aiming  at  things  that  should  affect  the  general  life, 
and  we  must  needs  seek  a  thorough  understanding 
of  our  world.  You  don't  expect  the  soldier  in  the 
ranks  to  study  the  strength  and  capacity  of  for- 
tresses, the  roads  and  by-ways  and  river-fords  of 
strange  countries,  and  all  the  thousand  details  of 
a  great  campaign.  But  the  great  captain  must  know 
these  things,  or  his  campaign  will  be  a  failure.  It 
may  be  that  you  arid  I  are  only  captains  in  a  very 
small  way,  but  not  the  less  we  must  know  our  facts, 
if  we  are  to  do  anything." 

Gordon  put  on  his  long  black  cloak,  and  the  two 


122     A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

men  went  out.  They  travelled  eastward,  ever  east- 
ward, till  they  left  the  cars  at  a  point  a  little  south 
of  Fourteenth  Street. 

"Now,"  said  Gordon,  "I  want  you  to  observe 
carefully  what  you  see.  It's  many  years  since  I  first 
discovered  this  district,  and  since  then  it  has  altered 
for  the  worse.  Yonder  lies  the  New  York  we  know, 
with  its  churches,  colleges,  and  clubs;  its  hosts  of 
pleasant  and  refined  people;  its  green  parks  and 
mansions;  its  thoughtless,  pleasure-loving  throngs; 
its  orgies  of  social  display ;  its  almost  insane  extrava- 
grance.  Now  look  at  this  New  York." 

On  every  side  rose  towering  tenements,  the  bas- 
tilles of  poverty,  containing  hundreds  of  rooms  into 
which  sunlight  and  fresh  air  never  penetrated.  The 
streets  were  narrow,  crowded,  unsavoury,  and  it  was 
noticeable  that  there  were  few  children  in  them. 
Upon  the  faces  of  the  people,  as  they  went  to  and 
fro,  there  was  a  peculiar  pallor,  such  as  flowers  have 
which  have  been  left  a  long  time  in  the  dark.  The 
people  themselves  were  not  ill-dressed;  there  were 
none  of  those  figures,  clothed  in  dreadful  rags, 
which  might  have  been  seen  in  a  London  slum;  nor 
were  there  the  bestial  faces,  soddened  with  alcohol, 
and  disfigured  by  ferocious  passions,  which  Paris 
can  display  when  she  vomits  up  a  Commune  from 
her  foul  abysses.  But  there  was  something  even 
more  pitiable — a  certain  dull  hopelessness  which 
characterizes  creatures  long  subject  to  ill-usage — the 
look  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  a  beaten  dog  or  a 


THE   UNDERWORLD  123 

starved  horse.  Both  men  and  women  walked  with 
eyes  turned  downward.  They  had  a  furtive,  stealthy 
air,  as  though  they  feared  something  which  they 
could  not  see.  Here  and  there  windows  in  these  vast 
populous  towers  were  open,  and  from  every  open 
window  came  the  endless  whirr  and  click-clack  of 
sewing  machines.  One  could  fancy  the  whole  dis- 
trict bestridden  by  some  gigantic  and  relentless 
slave-master;  some  monstrous  figure,  whose  cruel 
eyes  watched  every  room,  whose  vast  hands,  thrust 
through  the  vain  secrecies  of  walls  and  doors,  held 
men  and  women  to  an  interminable  task,  or  dragged 
them  forth  to  feed  the  maw  of  some  horrible  ma- 
chine whose  appetite  was  never  satiated. 

"This  is  the  New  York  I  want  you  to  see,"  said 
Gordon.  "Tell  me  what  strikes  you  about  it." 

"I  see  no  children,"  said  Gaunt.  "Where  are  they?" 

"They  are  all  at  work,"  said  Gordon.  "These 
children  never  play.  There  are  sixty  thousand  chil- 
dren in  New  York  shut  up  in  tenement  houses  like 
these,  or  even  worse  places,  not  one  of  whom  knows 
what  a  game  is.  Most  of  them  will  never  go  to 
school,  in  spite  of  all  the  efforts  of  truant  officers. 
Even  baby  fingers  can  earn  a  cent  an  hour  in  sweated 
labour,  and  these  little  ones  begin  a  life  of  slavery 
in  the  very  moment  when  they  leave  their  cradles." 

They  were  passing  at  that  moment  the  door  of  a 
tenement  house.  Out  of  the  door  came  two  gro- 
tesque creatures,  who  appeared  two  small  moving 
hills  of  clothes.  They  were  a  boy  and  girl,  perhaps 


124     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

about  nine  or  ten  years  of  age.  Upon  their  frail 
shoulders  was  piled  up  a  heap  of  garments  which 
would  have  been  a  sufficient  load  for  a  strong  man. 
They  strained  and  swayed  beneath  the  burden.  The 
boy  was  bowlegged.  The  girl  was  flat-chested, 
under-sized,  and  spindly.  The  face  of  each  wore 
the  same  expression  of  dull  endurance.  Gordon 
stooped  and  said  a  kind  word  to  the  two  unchildlike 
children.  They  simply  stared  at  him.  Kindness 
was  a  thing  they  had  never  known,  and  it  was  unin- 
telligible to  them.  It  was  clear  that  they  regarded 
the  old  man  with  vague  fear,  and  suspected  him  of 
some  design  upon  them. 

"And  there  are  sixty  thousand  children  like  that 
in  New  York,"  Gordon  repeated.  "And  within  one 
square  mile  of  where  we  stand  there  are  six  hundred 
thousand  people  of  whom  those  tiny  drudges  are 
the  types." 

"Why,  it's  overwhelming,"  said  Gaunt.  "Is  no  one 
doing  anything  for  them  socially  or  religiously?" 

"Oh,  something  is  being  done,  of  course,  but 
hardly  anything  in  the  right  way.  There  are  lots 
of  little  societies  of  good  people  who  come  down 
from  time  to  time  and  squirt  a  little  rose-water  over 
this  foetid  mass  of  life,  and  come  back  with  a  fine 
report  that  the  wilderness  has  really  blossomed  as 
the  rose.  I  did  that  sort  of  thing  myself, — I'll  tell 
you  all  about  it  some  day, — so  don't  suppose  I  speak 
slightingly  of  these  kind  but  futile  folk.  I  was  very 
much  in  earnest,  and  I  don't  doubt  that  I  did  some 


THE    UNDERWORLD  125 

good,  but  at  last  I  came  to  see  that  rose-water  did 
not  alter  things.  Do  you  know  how  these  people 
live?  They  live  in  foul,  unlighted  rooms,  some  of 
them  not  more  than  twelve  by  eight  and  not  six  feet 
high;  yet  in  these  rooms  you  will  find  eight  or  nine 
people  living,  cooking,  eating,  sleeping,  working. 
Think  of  what  it  means — year  in  and  year  out  this 
remorseless  labour,  with  a  working  day  of  from 
fourteen  to  fifteen  hours,  and  then  tell  me  of  what 
use  little  rose-water  clubs  and  missions  are  in  this 
Inferno?  They  must  make  the  devil  laugh." 

The  old  man's  voice  shook  with  indignation.  If 
he  looked  like  a  prophet  as  he  had  stood  in  the 
red  sunset  light  at  Riverside,  he  looked  trebly  so 
now,  as  he  lifted  his  hand  in  accusation  against 
these  impenetrable  fortresses  of  poverty,  these  crea- 
tions of  a  heartless  greed. 

They  went  on  in  silence  for  a  time  from  street 
to  street.  The  same  scenes  met  them  everywhere — 
always  the  same  dull  look  of  infinite  fatigue  in  the 
faces  of  the  people,  the  same  frowning  buildings 
shutting  out  the  light,  the  same  sense  of  lives 
dwarfed,  imprisoned,  bound  upon  the  wheel. 

"Why  don't  they  revolt?''  cried  Gaunt.  "How  is 
it  that  the  poor  don't  all  turn  robbers  and  settle  their 
debt  with  society  that  way  ?" 

"They  will  some  day,"  said  Gordon.  "And  even 
now  they're  settling  their  debt  with  society  in  ways 
more  terrible  than  robbery.  Why,  there's  fever 
and  every  kind  of  disease  in  these  squalid  rooms. 


126     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

There  are  people  with  smallpox  on  them  working 
upon  hundred-dollar  suits  of  clothes  which  will  soon 
be  upon  the  backs  of  rich  men,  and  the  smallpox  will 
go  home  with  the  suit  of  clothes.  It  is  stated  that 
two  hundred  million  dollars'  worth  of  garments  are 
manufactured  in  New  York  each  year,  and  nine- 
tenths  of  all  these  garments  are  stitched  and  sewn 
in  dens  like  these.  Half  the  disease  of  New  York 
is  nurtured  here.  These  tenements  are  the  barracks 
of  the  armies  of  death,  and  from  them  the  destroy- 
ing hosts  go  out  silent  and  unseen  to  reap  a  fearful 
harvest.  .  .  .  But  let  us  sit  down  somewhere.  I've 
miscalculated  my  strength  a  little.  I  am  tired." 

A  few  minutes'  walk  took  them  to  a  restaurant 
of  the  poorer  class.  It  was  a  long,  narrow  room, 
with  sanded  floor  and  bare  tables,  but  it  was  clean 
and  the  food  was  wholesome.  Gordon  drank  a  cup 
of  coffee,  and  presently  began  to  talk  again  in 
quieter  tones. 

"I  never  knew  until  to-day  how  horribly  I  have 
failed  in  life,"  he  said,  sadly. 

"No  one  would  say  that  but  yourself,"  Gaunt 
eagerly  responded. 

"In  this  matter  what  other  people  say  has  no 
weight  whatever,"  said  Gordon.  "They  can't  pos- 
sibly know  another  man's  standard  of  achievement, 
and  achievement  can  only  be  measured  by  aspira- 
tion. I  aspired  to  do  very  great  things  once.  Do 
you  know  why  I  failed  ?  Partly,  of  course,  through 
my  own  inefficiency,  but  really  through  a  perversity 


THE    UNDERWORLD  127 

of  judgment  which  I  was  unable  to  conquer.  The 
Church  calls  me  a  rebel,  and  yet  my  life  has  been 
undone  through  a  blind,  excessive  loyalty  to  the 
Church.  I  imagined  that  all  real  work  for  the  world 
must  be  done  through  the  organisation  of  the 
Church,  and  that  organisation  could  be  remodelled 
by  the  intrusion  of  new  ideas,  so  I  began  with  the- 
ology, and  you  know  the  result.  After  my  deposi- 
tion I  went  on  with  my  mission  work,  encouraged 
by  all  kinds  of  golden  dreams  that  men  would  rally 
to  me,  that  I  should  lead  a  movement,  that  the 
Church  would  at  last  come  to  my  point  of  view,  and 
each  of  these  dreams  in  turn  proved  false.  In  other 
words,  I  tried  to  do  exactly  what  you  are  trying  to 
do  now,  until  after  ten  years  of  lonely  experiment  I 
made  a  discovery.  I  discovered  that  the  Church  had 
turned  her  back  upon  the  real  facts  of  life." 

"In  what  way?" 

"In  every  way  you  can  imagine.  Thirty  years 
ago  she  turned  her  back  upon  the  prophets  of  a  new 
science,  who  were  opening  new  heavens  and  a  new 
earth  to  the  astonished  eyes  of  men.  She  refused 
to  listen  to  them,  she  derided  and  denounced  them, 
and  the  result  was  she  lost  the  leadership  of  thought 
among  all  intelligent  men.  To-day  she  turns  her 
back  precisely  in  the  same  way  upon  the  new  schol- 
arship which  devotes  itself  to  the  investigation  of 
religion.  She  does  not  so  much  as  ask  whether 
these  great  scholars  are  right  or  wrong;  she  simply 
does  not  choose  to  listen  to  them,  and  the  result  is 


128      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

she  has  lost  the  leadership  of  religious  thought  as 
she  lost  the  leadership  of  scientific  thought,  and 
intelligent  men  prefer  to  do  their  own  thinking  upon 
religion  without  any  guidance  from  the  Church. 
But,  worse  than  all,  she  has  lost  the  knowledge  of 
her  own  mission.  She  is  totally  unacquainted  with 
the  nature  of  those  ideals  which  once  made  her  a 
living  force,  and  by  which  she  has  the  right  to  exist. 
Look  at  New  York.  Where  do  you  find  the  most 
churches?  In  the  localities  where  wealth  is  most 
evident.  Christianity  has  openly  become  the  church 
of  the  rich.  It  is  the  inevitable  result  of  a  paid  min- 
istry; how  can  it  be  otherwise  under  a  system  which 
encourages  all  those  elements  of  social  rivalry  and 
display  which  are  found  in  the  world  of  commerce  ? 
Yes,  you  can  find  churches  enough  in  Fifth  Avenue, 
but  as  you  travel  eastward  the  church  spires  become 
fewer,  and  always  fewer.  Isn't  it  evident  that  the 
Church  has  practically  given  up  trying  to  reach  the 
poor?  And  in  every  American  city  the  story  is 
the  same.  The  Church  constantly  retreats  before  the 
invasion  of  poverty.  Downtown  churches  are  con- 
stantly sold  for  immense  sums  of  money,  and  the 
wealth  so  gained  is  employed  to  build  gorgeous  reli- 
gious club-houses  in  the  suburbs  among  the  com- 
fortable and  wealthy  classes.  Then,  in  turn,  these 
classes,  encouraged  by  the  selfishness  of  the  Church, 
forget  the  existence  of  the  poor,  and  the  result  is 
districts  like  these,  rotten  with  disease  and  poverty, 
full  of  forgotten  and  despairing  people,  for  whom 


THE    UNDERWORLD  129 

life  is  hell.  Oh,  that  I  could  have  my  life  over  again, 
how  differently  would  I  live  it !  But  it  has  taken  me 
half  a  century  to  learn  wisdom,  and  now  it  is  too  late 
to  apply  that  wisdom.  I  am  an  old  man.  But  you 
are  young,  and,  perhaps,  I  may  yet  do  something 
to  redeem  the  past  if  I  can  bequeath  to  you  the  wis- 
dom won  out  of  a  life  of  errors." 

Gaunt  was  profoundly  moved.  As  he  thought 
of  Gordon's  history  and  character,  the  courage  of 
the  one,  the  purity  and  nobleness  of  the  other,  his 
heart  went  out  in  love  and  admiration  to  the  old 
man.  He  laid  his  hand  gently  on  the  old  man's 
hand,  and  said : 

"Believe  me,  you  shall  find  in  me  an  obedient  and 
loyal  disciple.  What  is  it  you  would  have  me  do  ?" 

"For  the  present,  nothing  more  than  you  are 
doing.  After  all  you  must  find  your  way  yourself, 
you  must  make  your  own  experiment.  But  I  think 
you  will  learn  more  rapidly  than  I;  if  I  mistake  not, 
you  are  already  near  the  end  of  the  experimental 
stage." 

"But  tell  me,"  pressed  Gaunt,  "am  I  taking  the 
right  course?" 

"Every  course  is  right  as  long  as  a  man  follows 
right  alone." 

"Is  there  nothing  less  enigmatic  that  you  can  say 
to  your  disciple  ?"  asked  Gaunt,  with  a  grave  smile. 

"What  we  have  seen  this  morning,  has  that  no 
message?"  said  Gordon. 

"A  message  all  too  terrible.    It  is  ineffaceable." 


130     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"And  its  meaning?"  said  Gordon. 

"Its  meaning  is  bitterly  plain.  I  begin  to  see 
the  absurdity  of  my  idea  of  ever  touching  these  mis- 
erable lives  through  a  church  organized  as  mine  is. 
They  will  not  come  to  me,  and  I  know  not  how  to 
go  to  them.  Between  us  there  is  a  great  gulf 
fixed." 

"Yes,  that  is  one  thing,  and  a  very  important 
thing  too,"  said  Gordon.  "Yet,  contradictory  as  it 
may  appear,  I  wish  you  to  continue  the  experiment. 
Get  the  poor  into  your  church,  if  you  can — not  of 
course  these  slaves  of  the  tenements,  for  nothing 
could  draw  them  from  their  miserable  retreats,  but 
such  poor  as  are  accessible  to  you,  in  your  own 
neighbourhood." 

"I  see  another  thing,  too,"  Gaunt  continued :  "the 
almost  incurable  levity  of  our  temperament.  And 
yet — no — it's  not  quite  that:  it's  rather  a  kind  of 
buoyant  thoughtlessness,  a  dislike  to  pierce  below 
the  surface  of  things,  a  habit  of  ignoring  unpleasant 
issues.  We  lack  gravity  of  mind.  We  are  intoxi- 
cated with  prosperity,  we  are  reaping  its  rewards 
so  rapidly  that  no  one  stops  to  ask  at  what  price,  no 
one  wants  to  examine  the  dread  foundations  of 
crushed  and  ruined  lives  on  which  that  prosperity 
rests.  The  very  existence  of  this  city  of  filth  and 
squalor,  of  misery  and  disease,  in  the  midst  of  an- 
other city  of  unparalleled  luxury  and  extravagance, 
is  the  proof." 

"And  there  you  are  not  quite  just,"  said  Gordon. 


THE    UNDERWORLD  131 

"I  don't  grant  the  incurable  levity  of  our  tempera- 
ment." 

"How  would  you  describe  it?" 

"It's  nothing  worse  than  the  temperament  of 
youth.  Youth  often  appears  thoughtless,  and  yet 
there  is  no  more  certain  fact  than  that  youth  is 
peculiarly  susceptible  to  idealism.  As  a  nation,  we 
are  a  race  of  idealists;  we  are  so  because  we  are 
young.  Is  there  any  country  in  the  world  where 
any  new  idea  is  welcomed  so  enthusiastically? 
Where  is  there  any  people  so  ready  to  follow  any 
kind  of  leader  who  appears  to  have  a  message? 
Mormonism,  Zionism,  Christian  Science,  and  a  hun- 
dred other  curious  and  even  absurd  forms  of  faith — 
each  can  get  a  hearing,  can  build  itself  into  a  power, 
can  attract  multitudes  of  adherents.  And  all  this 
can  go  on  in  the  midst  of  a  people  supposed  to  be 
governed  solely  by  the  worship  of  the  almighty 
dollar !  Why,  the  accusation  is  absurd.  If  Ameri- 
cans adore  the  dollar,  it's  simply  for  want  of  some- 
thing better  to  adore;  and  even  then  it's  not  the 
mere  possession  of  money  that  attracts  them,  but  the 
power  which  it  implies.  Give  them  a  nobler  ideal, 
and  they'll  respond  to  it  as  only  a  race  of  idealists 
can.  And  there  lies  your  hope,  Gaunt.  You  are 
dealing  with  a  young  nation." 

"Doesn't  your  own  experience  in  the  Church  con- 
tradict you  ?"  said  Gaunt. 

"I  am  not  speaking  of  the  Church,  but  of  the 
nation — a  very  different  thing,"  said  Gordon.  "The 


132      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

Church  has  wilfully  made  herself  the  refuge  of  all 
that  is  conservative  and  reactionary  in  American 
life.  Of  course,  when  I  spoke  of  youth  in  the  nation 
I  didn't  mean  young  men ;  but  let  me  ask  you,  never- 
theless, do  you  find  young  men  in  the  churches? 
Very  rarely  are  they  there  in  any  numbers.  Nine- 
tenths  of  the  people  in  the  churches  are  over  forty. 
You'll  find  more  bald  heads  in  a  church  than  in  any 
other  assembly  of  equal  numbers  gathered  in  any 
auditorium  or  for  any  purpose  between  Boston  and 
San  Francisco.  The  Church  of  the  future  must  be 
found  outside  the  churches." 

"And  what  is  your  picture  of  the  Church  of  the 
future?" 

Gordon  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  and  in  his 
eyes  there  was  that  withdrawn  look,  which  had  al- 
ready impressed  Gaunt  so  powerfully.  He  seemed 
to  be  gazing  into  inscrutable  distances,  traversing 
illimitable  realms  of  thought  and  vision,  listening 
for  the  low-breathed  words  of  some  prophetic  revela- 
tion. When  he  spoke  again  it  was  slowly,  as  a  man 
in  some  mesmeric  trance  might  speak. 

"It  will  not  be  called  a  church,"  he  said.  "It 
will  have  neither  creeds,  nor  forms,  nor  subscrip- 
tions. Its  law  will  be  freedom;  its  condition,  service. 
It  will  unite  all  men  who  love  humanity  in  the  com- 
mon service  of  humanity.  It  will  be  a  society  of 
equals.  It  will  worship  Christ,  but  neither  as  God 
nor  man;  rather  as  a  Living  Presence  in  all  men, 
making  all  men  divine.  It  will  attract  everybody, 


THE    UNDERWORLD  133 

for  it  will  include  everybody.  Men  will  not  be  able 
to  afford  to  stay  outside;  to  do  so  would  be  to  re- 
nounce their  heritage  as  men.  It  will  be  based  on 
universal  ideas.  It  will  make  the  slum  impossible, 
for  it  will  make  impossible  the  greed  and  neglect 
which  produce  it.  It  will  be  terribly  just,  so  just 
that  unrighteous  men  will  fear  its  disapproval  far 
more  than  any  other  form  of  punishment.  It  will 
be  infinitely  pitiful,  so  pitiful  that  the  life  most 
bruised  will  be  certain  of  its  consolation.  And  I 
think  it  will  be  called  ...  it  will  be  called  The 
League  of  Service,  and  its  emblem  will  be  a  mother 
with  a  child  in  her  arms." 

The  voice  died  away  in  an  awed  whisper. 

"The  League  of  Service."  The  words  seemed  to 
fill  the  dingy  restaurant  with  light.  The  light  spread, 
until  even  the  dreary  bastilles  of  poverty  were  illu- 
minated, and  their  roofs  were  plumed  with  sacred 
flame. 

And  Gaunt  knew  that  in  that  moment  a  great 
thing  had  happened.  An  Ideal  had  entered  the 
world,  an  Ideal  which  he  knew  was  worth  living  for 
and  dying  for. 


X 

THE  DISSIMULATION   OF   MARGARET 

WHEN  Margaret  Gaunt  had  spoken  so 
cheerfully  of  giving  up  her  house,  in 
which  all  her  married  life  had  been 
lived,  she  was  guilty  of  dissimulation.  It  was  the 
kind  of  dissimulation  of  which  all  good  women  are 
guilty,  for  what  good  woman  is  not  constantly  en- 
gaged in  suppressing  herself  for  the  sake  of  those 
she  loves  ?  "I'd  really  rather  not  take  a  holiday  this 
year,"  says  the  tired  wife,  who  knows  the  economy 
forced  on  her  by  narrow  means;  or,  "I  really  like 
sitting  up  at  night,  it  doesn't  tire  me  at  all,  and  you, 
dear,  have  your  work  to  think  of,"  says  the  mother 
when  a  sick  child  has  to  be  watched  and  nursed 
through  midnight  hours;  and  she  says  these  things 
with  such  a  show  of  sincerity  and  conviction  that 
she  finds  herself  believed.  Perhaps  she  is  a  little 
hurt  to  find  herself  believed  so  readily,  but,  if  she  is, 
she  takes  care  to  hide  the  wound.  It  is  only  one 
wound  more  upon  a  heart  that  has  endured  so  many, 
and,  after  all,  the  great  thing  is  that  those  she  loves 
should  be  happy  and  content,  and  take  their  day 
upon  the  seashore  or  in  the  woods,  and  sleep  when 
all  the  world  sleeps,  as  is  their  right.  And  it  is  a 
little  hard,  as  years  go  on,  to  find  the  child  taking 

134 


MARGARET'S   DISSIMULATION    135 

pleasure  with  a  thoughtless  joy,  and  saying:  "Oh, 
mother  won't  be  lonely  if  we  go  our  own  way,  you 
know  she  likes  to  be  alone";  or,  perhaps,  the  hus- 
band, used  to  leaning  on  her  strength,  quietly  assum- 
ing that  that  strength  has  no  limit  of  endurance. 
And  is  she  tired?  Suppose  you  should  wake  up  in 
the  hour  when  the  gray  dawn  breaks,  and  the  fitful 
wailing  of  the  sick  child  is  hushed  at  last,  will  you 
find  no  marks  of  fatigue  in  the  mother's  face  ?  Tired, 
so  tired  that  every  bone  aches  and  cries  for  sleep; 
but  she  will  never  say  so,  and  an  hour  later  you  will 
find  her  so  bright  and  active  that  the  memory  of 
those  drawn  features  and  relaxed  hands  on  which 
the  cold  dawn  light  fell  will  seem  a  thing  you 
dreamed.  And  would  not  she  also,  oh,  thoughtless 
child,  love  to  lie  upon  the  warm  sea-sand,  and  rest 
beneath  the  green  arches  of  the  woods  with  you — 
she  who  was  once  as  young  as  you,  and  recollects 
a  good  time  "long  time  ago,"  when  she  was  never 
vexed  with  unpaid  bills,  and  stoves  that  wouldn't 
burn,  and  servants  who  wouldn't  work,  and  all  the 
complicated  details  and  annoyances  of  household 
management  ?  But  she  will  never  say  so.  She  will 
let  you  go  on  thinking  that  she  is  never  happier  than 
when  she  is  baking  bread  and  making  pies  for  you 
to  eat,  and  stitching  clothes  for  you  to  wear;  and 
if  any  one  of  stricter  vision  should  call  you  selfish, 
she  will  at  once  rise  up  in  your  defence,  and  do 
vehement  battle,  and  declare  that  it  is  not  selfishness 
at  all,  but  just  your  natural  right  to  the  joy  of  life. 


136      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

It  would  be  a  dreadful  world  if  those  with  whom  we 
have  to  live  in  closest  bonds,  saw  all  our  defects 
with  a  vision  never  less  than  accurate;  or,  seeing 
those  defects,  spoke  of  them  as  a  stranger  might, 
with  a  judgment  that  was  mercilessly  just.  And  so 
it  is  one  of  woman's  great  arts  to  dissimulate,  and 
it  is  her  finest  charm  and  grace:  an  art  which  the 
inherited  traditions  of  renunciation  through  many 
centuries  have  wrought  to  such  perfectness  that 
only  now  and  then  do  those  she  loves  suspect  the 
illusion,  and  when  they  do  she  will  blush  for  its 
discovery. 

On  such  a  theme  what  pages  might  be  written, 
which  it  would  not  be  good  for  men  who  dwell  in 
lonely  homes,  out  of  which  the  dead  have  passed, 
to  read  alone  at  night;  or  beside  the  camp-fires  in 
strange  foreign  lands,  where  sons  think  of  distant 
homes  and  vanished  faces;  they  might  produce  that 
remorse  too  terrible  for  tears  which  makes  life  itself 
seem  unendurable.  And  so  let  us  rather  thank  God 
that  this  is  woman's  nature;  that  she  is  content  to 
sacrifice  and  be  forgotten ;  that,  in  her,  dissimulation 
is  but  the  expression  of  an  unselfishness  so  profound 
that  it  makes  a  grace  of  falsehood,  and  turns  a  weak- 
ness into  an  illustrious  kind  of  fortitude  and  cour- 
age, beside  which  the  thing  we  call  courage  on  a 
battlefield  appears  a  coarse  grotesque. 

Margaret  Gaunt,  being  a  good  woman,  was  no 
wiser  than  her  sex,  and  so,  when  her  husband  chose 
a  new  path  for  himself,  she  followed  meekly,  school- 


MARGARET'S    DISSIMULATION     137 

ing  herself  to  think  it  was  the  very  path  she  would 
have  chosen.  She  met  him  with  gay  smiles,  talked 
lightly  of  the  Settlement  girl  and  the  kind  of  home 
she  had  established  in  the  slums;  but  all  the  while 
her  own  heart  clung  desperately  to  this  home  of  hers, 
which  was  the  monument  of  her  own  taste,  discre- 
tion, and  womanly  pride.  There  was  not  a  room  in 
it  which  did  not  appeal  to  some  memory,  some  ten- 
der sentiment.  Here  and  here  things  had  happened, 
the  small  memorable  things  that  make  up  a  woman's 
world,  and  each  was  like  a  tiny  shrine  in  which  a 
lamp  burned.  There  was  one  room  in  the  house 
which  she  and  her  husband  never  entered  save  on 
tiptoe,  and  they  never  went  together.  If  one  found 
the  other  there  by  accident,  the  one  would  go  away 
silently  without  daring  to  say  a  word.  For  there 
had  been  born  her  one  child,  there  he  had  died, 
and  the  silence  of  death  had  never  left  the  room. 
She  would  often  go  there  when  the  evening  shadows 
fell,  and  recall  that  brief  ecstasy  of  motherhood, 
and  almost  fancy  she  saw  a  little  golden  child  sleep- 
ing in  the  sunbeam  that  fell  across  the  bed;  and 
Gaunt  always  opened  the  door  of  the  room  for  an 
instant  as  he  went  up  to  bed  at  night,  and  stood 
listening,  as  if  for  a  sleeper's  breath;  but  though 
each  knew  what  the  other  did,  neither  had  dared 
mention  it.  They  never  mentioned  it,  yet  it  was  a 
bond  between  them;  and  had  they  been  in  any  seri- 
ous peril  of  drifting  apart,  the  memories  of  that 
room  would  have  stayed  their  feet.  If  there  was 


138      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

one  thing  more  bitter  than  another  to  the  heart 
of  Margaret  in  the- thought  of  leaving  this  house,  it 
was  that  some  one  else  would  live  in  that  room, 
some  other  child,  perhaps,  strong  and  sturdy,  before 
whose  happy  laughter  her  frail  ghost-child  would 
be  driven  out.  If  she  could  have  taken  that  room 
with  her,  she  would  not  have  grieved  so  much,  al- 
though every  room  had  its  own  fragrance  of  asso- 
ciation ;  but  that  a  stranger's  feet  should  tread  there 
seemed  an  insult  and  a  sacrilege.  And  yet,  you  see, 
she  was  a  woman  of  placid  brows  and  cheerful 
speech,  of  the  kind  called  practical;  and  there  were 
a  great  many  people  who  thought  they  knew  her 
well,  who  never  even  knew  she  had  had  a  child,  who 
came  with  the  spring  flowers  years  ago,  and  went 
away  with  the  summer  heats. 

And  then  there  were  other  things,  too,  in  which 
Margaret  practised  her  gracious  art  of  dissimula- 
tion. For  instance,  she  made  a  great  deal  in  her 
talk  with  her  husband  of  her  difficulties  with  her 
hired  help.  But  that  was  simply  her  method  of 
preparing  him  for  the  dreadful  moment  when  she 
meant  to  do  without  any  help  at  all.  For  if  her 
husband  knew  nothing  about  how  the  money  went, 
she  knew.  You  can't  resign  a  fixed  and  ample 
salary,  and  go  on  living  just  as  though  you  had  it; 
at  least,  you  can't  do  it  honestly.  Her  "poor  babe 
of  genius,"  as  she  often  called  him  in  a  kind  of  ma- 
ternal irony,  might  suppose  that  he  could  easily 
earn  enough  money  by  his  pen  for  his  own  simple 


MARGARET'S    DISSIMULATION    139 

wants  and  hers — which  was  no  doubt  true;  but  when 
you  added  two  hired  girls  and  a  man,  each  gifted 
with  stupendous  appetites  and  a  long-practised 
power  of  wastefulness,  why,  then  the  problem  took 
another  phase.  So  she  quietly  dismissed  her  staff, 
and  got  cheap  occasional  help  instead,  and  he  never 
guessed  the  truth  at  all,  and  never  learned  its  in- 
wardness, but  accepted  her  statement  without  ques- 
tion that  she  had  found  it  necessary  to  make  a 
change — so  easily  is  man  hoodwinked  by  a  smiling 
face  in  woman.  For,  of  course  she  made  a  jest 
of  it,  and  almost  made  him  feel  that  it  was  a  kind 
of  special  Providence  that  left  her  servantless, — the 
house  was  so  much  quieter  without  them, — while  all 
the  time  her  one  desire  and  purpose  was  to  save  a 
little  money  against  the  hour  of  need. 

But  these  were  trifles  compared  with  the  strain 
put  upon  her  powers  of  dissimulation  by  affairs  at 
the  church.  There  was  scarce  a  Sunday  now  when 
something  did  not  happen  that  tried  her  patience. 
All  sorts  of  spiteful  gossip  came  to  her,  and  false 
reports,  and  often  wounding  words  would  be  spoken 
to  her  which  brought  the  angry  tears  into  her  eyes. 
Things  that  no  one  would  have  dared  to  say  to 
Gaunt  were  said  to  her,  in  the  expectation  that  they 
would  reach  him  through  her,  and  so  inflict  a  double 
wound;  but  they  never  did,  for  she  hid  them  in 
her  heart  and  pondered  them  in  secret,  but  never 
let  him  know.  And  it  is  surprising  how  much  can 
be  said  without  words;  how  contemptuous  pity  or 


140      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

aversion  can  manage  to  convey  a  world  of  pain  by  a 
cold  glance,  or  the  shrug  of  a  shoulder,  or  a  capacity 
for  not  seeing  you  in  the  street  or  taking  another 
road  when  you  appear.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be 
asked  with  such  singular  pointedness  how  your  hus- 
band's health  is,  that  the  inference  is  conveyed  that 
the  questioner  is  thinking  of  his  mind  rather  than 
his  body;  nor  "Is  he  better  ?"  in  the  tone  of  one  who 
assumes  that  he  is  in  the  last  stages  of  decay;  nor  to 
hear  a  soft-purring  female  voice  proclaiming  in  a 
discreet  whisper,  "My  dear,  how  I  pity  you";  and 
Margaret's  blood  burned  under  these  feline  ameni- 
ties. But  Gaunt,  poor  man,  never  knew  why  her 
colour  was  so  high  when  she  came  from  church;  he 
imagined  that  it  was  the  rose  of  health,  not  of  anger, 
that  flamed  upon  her  cheek,  and  congratulated  her, 
telling  her  how  well  she  looked.  And  she  smiled 
back  at  him,  as  though  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  to  endure  the  smart  of  petty  in- 
sult, and  say  no  word  about  it. 

For  instance,  there  was  Mrs.  Small,  the  wife  of 
Deacon  Small,  a  large,  plain  woman,  who  emulated 
the  bluff  manners  of  her  husband,  and  made  it  her 
boast  that  she  always  said  what  she  thought.  That 
kind  of  boast  usually  implies  an  entire  incapacity 
for  understanding  what  other  people  think;  cer- 
tainly it  did  so  with  Mrs.  Small.  By  dint  of  long 
cultivation  in  what  was  no  doubt  a  natural  gift 
of  rudeness,  Mrs.  Small  had  earned  for  herself  the 
reputation  of  a  censor  of  everybody's  methods  of 


MARGARET'S    DISSIMULATION    141 

life,  and  she  found  the  church  an  admirable  arena 
for  her  exertions.  She  never  failed  to  let  Margaret 
know  when  she  thought  the  sermon  was  too  long, 
or  when  she  disagreed  with  it. 

"If  your  husband  preached  shorter  it  would  be 
much  better  for  his  health,  and  for  our  comfort, 
too/'  she  said,  bluntly,  one  day.  "He  forgets  that  he 
is  preaching  to  the  tired  business  man,  who  really 
can't  follow  a  long  sermon.  The  business  man  likes 
it  short  and  simple." 

"Likes  it  predigested,  like  Grape-nuts,"  retorted 
Margaret,  with  smiling  irony.  "But  you  see  there 
are  other  people  in  the  church  beside  tired  business 
men,  who  are  quite  capable  of  doing  their  own  in- 
tellectual digestion." 

That  was  not  a  wise  speech  of  Margaret's,  for 
Mrs.  Small,  like  most  stupid  people,  did  not  under- 
stand irony,  and  was  enraged  by  it.  So  she  went  away 
and  said  she  was  very  sorry  for  the  minister,  it  was 
evident  that  his  wife  did  not  appreciate  him,  for  had 
she  not  compared  his  discourses  with  Grape-nuts? 

Mrs.  Small  was  also  of  opinion  that  there  were  a 
great  many  things  which  ought  not  to  be  mentioned 
in  the  pulpit  at  all,  and,  as  these  prohibited  themes 
happened  to  include  about  nine-tenths  of  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  Bible,  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  know  on 
what  subjects  a  minister  might  preach  at  all  for 
her  edification.  It  sounds  a  little  incredible,  but  it  is, 
nevertheless,  true,  as  many  people  will  remember, 
that  when  Gaunt  introduced  the  recital  of  the  Ten 


142      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

Commandments  with  responses  on  the  first  Sunday 
of  the  month,  Mrs.  Small  expressed  her  opinion 
that  the  Decalogue  was  "coarse";  that  it  was 
offensive  to  her  fine  female  sense  to  hear  murder, 
and  theft,  and  adultery  mentioned  with  such  brutal 
frankness,  for  while  that  kind  of  thing  might  be 
all  right  for  depraved  Jews  in  the  time  of  Moses, 
it  was  totally  unnecessary  in  New  York,  where, 
of  course,  such  things  never  happen.  She  was 
even  more  angry  when  Gaunt  preached  one  morn- 
ing on  the  woman  who  was  a  sinner,  for  on  that 
particular  morning  she  had  with  her  in  her  pew 
an  engaged  couple  of  quite  mature  years — they  were 
each  close  on  forty — to  whom  such  a  theme  must 
have  been  most  awkward,  and  a  provocation  to  dis- 
agreeable blushes. 

"We  don't  come  to  church  to  hear  about  such 
things,"  she  said,  angrily,  to  Margaret;  "the  Sunday 
papers  are  bad  enough." 

"Do  you  find  them  so?"  retorted  Margaret,  which 
was  again  an  unwise  speech,  for  Mrs.  Small  was  a 
great  reader  of  Sunday  papers,  a  fact  of  which  Mar- 
garet was  perfectly  aware. 

Then  Mrs.  Small  assumed  an  almost  proprietary 
interest  in  Margaret's  house,  which  she  often  visited, 
not  from  any  love  for  Margaret,  but  for  the  oppor- 
tunity for  criticism  which  the  house  afforded.  She 
would  pretend  to  admire  its  taste,  and  have  an 
artistic  interest  in  its  furniture,  after  which  she 
would  remark  with  an  air  of  patient  meekness: 


MARGARET'S    DISSIMULATION    143 

"Well,  I  don't  see  how  you  can  afford  all  these  nice 
things,  anyway;  I  know  we  can't  have  them.  My 
husband  won't  have  anything  that  isn't  quite  sim- 
ple." The  implication,  of  course,  was  that  Mar- 
garet was  extravagant,  whereas  she  was  simply  one 
of  those  wise  modern  women  who  have  discovered 
that  ugliness  is  no  cheaper  than  beauty,  and  the 
Smalls  were  people  who  didn't  know  the  one  from 
the  other,  but  chose  the  ugly  things  from  a  natural 
love  of  ugliness. 

Margaret  made  the  most  praiseworthy  efforts  to 
live  at  peace  with  persons  of  this  description,  but 
the  trouble  was  that  they  were  so  arrogant  in  their 
inferiority  that  they  would  not  let  her.  They  could 
not  help  wishing  to  humble  her,  because  in  their 
hearts  they  were  jealous  of  her.  When  Gaunt  began 
to  think  and  act  for  himself  in  the  ways  that  we  have 
seen,  Mrs.  Small  and  her  tribe  became  really  venom- 
ous in  their  indignation.  They  lost  no  opportunity 
of  veiled  or  open  insult,  all  of  which  Margaret  en- 
dured in  silence  so  far  as  her  husband  was  concerned. 
That  baffled  maternal  instinct,  whose  shrine  was  the 
room  with  the  closed  door  where  her  child  had  died, 
now  flowered  anew  in  defence  of  her  husband.  It 
became  the  first  duty  of  her  life  to  shield  him  from 
petty  irritations,  while  he  made  his  way  toward  new 
heights  of  thought ;  and  but  for  her  enfolding  com- 
bative maternity,  perhaps  he  would  never  have 
reached  those  heights  at  all.  But  he  never  knew 
the  cost  to  her.  No  trace  of  agitation  marred  the 


144      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

calm  beauty  of  her  face;  for  him  her  lips  had  only 
smiles  and  sweet  encouragement,  which  was  an- 
other triumph  of  dissimulation. 

What  grieved  her  most  in  those  weeks  of  crisis, 
however,  was  the  manifest  failure  of  friendship 
among  those  whom  she  had  trusted.  It  seemed  as 
though  she  leaned  on  no  one  who  was  not  a  broken 
reed  that  pierced  the  hand  which  leant  upon  it. 
There  were  the  Taskers,  for  example,  people  whom 
she  had  genuinely  liked,  and  to  whom  she  had  shown 
much  kindness,  especially  to  the  wife,  who  thought 
herself  delicate  and  was  always  in  need  of  service. 
They,  like  herself,  were  childless,  and  lived  a  some- 
what lonely  life.  For  this  reason  she  had  been 
drawn  toward  them,  had  invited  them  often  to  her 
house,  especially  on  Sunday  evenings  and  special 
occasions  like  Thanksgiving  Day  and  Christmas. 
But  from  the  hour  when  the  trouble  had  begun  in 
the  church  they  stood  aloof.  They  nearly  always 
found  some  excuse  to  avoid  visiting  the  house.  On 
the  one  or  two  occasions  when  they  came,  they  were 
painfully  embarrassed  and  restrained.  If  Margaret 
had  not  had  a  wholesome  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  she 
would  have  been  much  more  hurt  than  she  was;  for 
it  was  a  truly  absurd  sight  to  see  the  little  man  try- 
ing to  avoid  the  burning  question,  yet  always  com- 
ing back  to  it  like  a  moth  to  a  flame :  beginning  ex- 
planations which  ended  in  nothing,  speaking  with 
an  unusual  assumption  of  authority  on  subjects  of 
which  he  knew  nothing,  and  always  falling  back 


MARGARET'S    DISSIMULATION    145 

on  his  favourite  phrase  that  things  "act  and  react." 
She  humorously  christened  him  Act-and-React, 
and  called  him  by  that  name  when  she  discussed 
affairs  with  Palmer,  which  she  often  did.  But  at 
the  back  of  her  mind  there  was  a  sense  of  hurt,  a 
pang  of  bitter  disappointment.  If  these  people,  to 
whom  she  had  given  so  much  real  affection,  were 
only  fair-weather  friends,  whom  could  she  trust? 
If,  at  the  first  strain,  their  friendship  broke  down, 
where  was  a  truly  loyal  friendship  to  be  found  ?  She 
did  not  see  then,  what  she  recognized  long  after- 
wards, that  church  friendships  are  of  an  order  by 
themselves;  they  are  after  all  but  official  friend- 
ships. The  friends  who  come  to  you  thus  are  im- 
posed upon  you  by  an  accidental  relationship;  they 
are  not  deliberately  chosen  by  that  process  of  affin- 
ity which  constitutes  any  real  friendship.  Besides, 
with  people  as  fluid  as  Tasker,  no  real  friendship  is 
ever  possible.  No  amount  of  kindness  can  overcome 
radical  feebleness  of  character,  or  turn  it  into  stead- 
fastness and  constancy.  It  is  a  lesson  not  easy  to 
learn,  and  Margaret  found  it  no  easier  than  other 
people  do.  She  shed  a  good  many  secret  tears  over 
it.  For  a  time  she  felt  as  though  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  disinterested  loyalty  in  life.  Then  her  bet- 
ter sense  prevailed.  She  remembered  Palmer  and 
Gordon.  She  began  to  recognize  that  disillusion  is 
not  the  only  lesson  in  life — life  has  its  revelations, 
too,  but  disillusions  must  precede  them.  As  we 
journey  toward  the  higher  things,  the  company 


146     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

improves;  and  if  we  have  fewer  friends,  we  have  in 
them  the  true  comrades  of  the  spirit,  whose  alliance 
with  us  is  beyond  the  shock  of  circumstances. 

There  was  also  another  compensation  which 
Margaret  never  recollected  without  a  thrill  of  grati- 
tude. As  those  in  whom  she  had  trusted  gradually 
withdrew,  another  class  of  people  came  nearer — 
people  like  Mrs.  Holcombe,  whose  worth  she  had 
never  recognized.  Her  friendships  had  been  among 
the  richer  members  of  the  church,  not  from  choice, 
still  less  from  any  kind  of  social  snobbery,  but 
simply  because  these  friendships  had  been  imposed 
upon  her  by  the  situation.  The  new  note  of  militant 
democracy  which  Gaunt  had  struck  naturally  of- 
fended these  people,  and  they  were  quick  to  declare 
their  displeasure.  They  were  for  the  most  part  very 
pleasant  people  to  know,  but  their  social  ideas  were 
conventional,  and  Gaunt's  unconventionalism  irri- 
tated them  much  more  than  any  kind  of  heresy 
would  have  done.  But  it  soon  became  clear  that 
the  new  note  he  had  struck  was  very  welcome  in 
other  quarters.  There  was  in  the  congregation  a 
considerable  number  of  quietly  obscure  people  of 
whom  Mrs.  Holcombe  was  the  type:  people  who 
fought  hard  battles  in  secret,  and  needed  sympathy; 
to  them  Gaunt's  later  teachings,  being  broadly  hu- 
man, spiritual,  and  touched  with  a  tenderness  of 
which  they  had  never  thought  him  capable,  were  as 
a  brook  by  the  way  to  thirsty  lips.  Margaret  came 
to  know  these  people  little  by  little,  and  it  filled  her 


MARGARET'S    DISSIMULATION    147 

with  a  sense  of  shame  and  regret  that  she  had  not 
known  them  earlier. 

It  was  through  contact  with  these  people  that 
Margaret  arrived  by  another  road  at  the  conclusion 
Gaunt  had  already  reached :  viz.,  that  the  first  aim 
of  any  true  ministry  should  be  to  seek  after  those 
who  knew  most  of  the  hardness  of  human  life.  "For 
they  cannot  recompense  thee," — the  divine  words 
were  often  in  her  thoughts, — that  strange  reason  for 
giving  feasts,  which,  nevertheless,  seemed  so  simple 
and  axiomatic  to  Him  who  uttered  it,  that  He  did 
not  so  much  as  offer  the  least  explanation  of  it. 

There  was  Mrs.  Holcombe,  for  example,  with  her 
tall,  fine  figure,  and  white  hair,  and  patient  eyes; 
what  a  life  hers  had  been!  Margaret  drew  the 
story  from  her  one  afternoon,  when  the  falling 
shadows  invited  confidence — that  hour  which  women 
choose  for  the  exposition  of  those  secret  thoughts 
which  shun  the  garish  day.  It  was  an  old  and  com- 
mon story:  a  husband  weak  rather  than  bad,  who 
had  consumed  her  property,  ruined  her  life,  and 
at  last,  after  an  act  of  fraud,  had  disappeared.  Mrs. 
Holcombe  told  the  story  without  a  single  word  of 
blame  or  anger.  After  the  crash  came  she  found 
she  had  just  enough  left  to  live  on,  with  grinding 
economy,  and  the  house  where  all  her  married  life 
had  been  passed;  and  so  she  stayed  there,  with  no 
company  but  her  memories.  There  was  another 
reason,  too,  which  Margaret  found  infinitely  pa- 
thetic. The  forsaken  wife  still  cherished  a  faint 


148      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

hope  that  her  husband  would  reappear,  and,  there- 
fore, she  remained  in  New  York,  that  he  might 
know  where  to  find  her.  There  was  not  a  day  when 
her  eyes  did  not  search  for  his  face  among  the  rest- 
less passing  throngs  in  New  York;  no  wonder  her 
eyes  had  grown  dim  with  long  patience,  for  she  had 
searched  twenty  years  in  vain.  She  had  even  gone 
to  hospital  wards  and  the  poorhouse  on  Black  well's 
Island  from  time  to  time,  on  the  same  hopeless 
quest,  and  to  many  other  refuges  of  broken  men, 
where  she  imagined  that  he  might  be  found.  He 
had  wrought  her  great  wrong,  she  expected  noth- 
ing from  him,  yet  there  was  not  a  night  when  she 
locked  her  door  without  the  painful  thought  that 
she  might  be  locking  him  out  in  the  dark  streets; 
not  a  morning  when  she  would  not  have  welcomed 
him  had  he  come  to  that  door,  the  veriest  beggar, 
clothed  in  rags.  And  what  could  Margaret  do 
but  draw  the  forsaken  woman  to  her  bosom  in  a 
long  caress — how  different  a  caress  from  those  shal- 
low, quickly-forgotten  conventional  caresses  which 
she  had  bestowed  on  many  a  careless  friend  who 
had  now  forgotten  her?  So  Margaret  also  came 
to  touch  the  realities  of  life,  to  understand  the  trag- 
edy and  heroism  of  obscure  lives,  and  her  nature  was 
both  sweetened  and  deepened  by  the  knowledge. 

And  there  were  other  people,  too,  whom  she  came 
to  know  and  love,  drawn  to  them  by  the  new  need 
for  sympathy  which  existed  in  her  own  life.  There 
was  a  little  crippled  woman,  nearly  blind,  earning 


MARGARET'S   DISSIMULATION    149 

a  precarious  living  by  her  needle,  who  had  lately 
found  her  way  into  the  church,  attracted  by  the  new 
note  of  sympathy  in  Gaunt's  preaching.  She  usu- 
ally chose  a  dim  comer  of  the  church  where  she 
could  be  unobserved,  and  no  one  noticed  her.  But 
one  day  she  hobbled  down  the  aisle  to  Margaret's 
pew,  and  pressed  into  her  hand  a  little  parcel,  con- 
taining a  specimen  of  exquisite  needlework  for  her 
use,  and  no  gift  Margaret  had  ever  received  touched 
her  so  deeply  as  this  offering.  And  she  was  more 
touched  still  when  the  little  old  lady  began  to  speak 
in  gratitude  of  all  the  help  she  had  received  from 
Gaunt's  ministry,  for  that  was  a  kind  of  language 
to  which  Margaret  had  long  been  unaccustomed. 
And  there  were  two  humble  men,  named  Plane  and 
Scarlett,  who  gave  her  a  letter  signed  with  their 
joint  names,  in  which  they  assured  her  that  they 
prayed  for  her  and  her  husband  every  day,  and  bade 
her  be  of  good  heart,  for  all  would  come  out  right 
some  day;  with  much  more  to  the  same  effect,  ex- 
pressed in  rude  everyday  phrases,  which  were  the 
best  they  knew,  and  much  more  moving  in  their 
unaffected  sincerity  than  more  polite  and  scholarly 
phrases  would  have  been. 

So  one  day  Margaret  made  a  little  supper  for 
Plane  and  Scarlett  at  her  house,  and  invited  the 
little,  old  crippled  lady  whose  name  was  Smith,  and 
Mrs.  Holcombe  helped  to  entertain  them;  and  she 
found  their  simplicity  and  goodness  of  heart  so 
charming  that  she  felt  quite  reconciled  to  the  fact 


ISO     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

that  Mrs.  Somerset  had  struck  her  off  her  visiting 
list,  and  Mrs.  Tasker  had  found  her  delicacy  of  con- 
stitution so  great  that  for  three  months  she  had  not 
been  able  to  take  the  journey  to  the  manse. 

So,  you  see,  there  are  compensations  in  every  lot. 
And  Margaret's  great  compensation  at  this  time  was 
the  discovery  of  all  kinds  of  beautiful  things  in  hu- 
man nature,  as  represented  by  humble  folk,  which 
made  her  gradually  forget  the  discoveries  she  had 
made  of  all  sorts  of  mean  and  ugly  things  in  people 
by  no  means  humble,  whose  code  of  manners  and 
morals  did  not  include  kindness,  nor  charity,  nor 
constancy  in  the  hour  of  need.  And  about  these 
discoveries  there  was  no  need  for  dissimulation.  She 
spoke  of  them  joyously  to  her  husband,  and  his  face 
grew  glad  as  she  spoke,  for  he  recognized  in  them 
an  augury  that  the  path  he  was  taking  was  the  right 
path.  Perhaps  it  may  sound  a  little  paradoxical, 
yet  I  doubt  whether  John  and  Margaret  Gaunt  were 
ever  quite  so  happy  as  in  these  difficult  days,  when 
they  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  blessing  of  the  poor; 
and  daily  leaned  on  each  other  with  a  sweeter  con- 
fidence, and  found  that  through  the  very  breaking 
up  of  shallow  friendships  there  was  revealed  to  them 
the  deeper  treasure  of  unselfish  love. 

No  one  minds  being  forsaken  by  the  unworthy, 
if  the  worthy  remain  with  him.  Both  husband  and 
wife  proved  now  the  truth  of  Palmer's  aphorism, 
that  the  defection  of  the  unworthy  is  the  occasion 
of  the  worthy. 


XI 
RENUNCIATION 

THE  LEAGUE  OF  SERVICE— the  words 
sang  in  Gaunt's  ears  night  and  day,  they 
set  the  rhythm  of  his  thoughts,  they  were 
written  in  shining  letters  upon  the  sky  of  his  dreams. 
It  was  an  ideal  magnificent  in  its  very  simplicity. 
And  the  more  he  pondered  it,  the  more  clearly  he 
saw  that  mankind  had  always  been  in  search  of  this 
ideal.  It  was  present  in  every  religion,  it  was  indeed 
the  root  of  all  religions.  Even  in  its  most  muti- 
lated form,  whenever  it  had  appeared,  it  had  in- 
stantly appealed  to  the  hearts  of  men.  When  re- 
ligion cast  it  out,  it  found  fresh  incarnations  in  those 
great  secular  movements  which  bound  men  together 
for  common  ends,  overspread  continents,  and  cre- 
ated secret  confederacies  among  nations  which  out- 
lived forms  of  government  and  changes  of  dynasty. 
It  had  poured  its  armies  of  missionaries  into  barba- 
rous lands,  it  had  set  men  fighting  behind  barricades 
against  intolerable  tyrannies,  it  had  made  heroes  and 
martyrs  out  of  all  who  had  embraced  it.  For  if 
man  was  inherently  selfish,  he  was  inherently  un- 
selfish too,  and  was  always  ready  to  respond  to 
an  ideal  which  appealed  to  the  highest  and  best 
in  himself. 


i$2      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

It  was  in  this  latter  thought  he  found  his  hope. 
After  all,  the  cardinal  characteristics  of  man  did  not 
alter,  and  among  those  characteristics  the  power  of 
unselfish  action  was  as  evident  as  the  strength  of 
selfish  greed.  For  if  every  age  revealed  man  as  a 
selfish  animal,  continually  struggling  for  his  own 
ends,  each  age  also  revealed  man  as  capable  of  sac- 
rificing himself  to  his  fellows  upon  any  call  that 
he  found  imperative  and  authoritative.  It  might  be 
that  this  was  a  selfish  and  corrupt  age,  dominated  by 
commercial  avarice,  but  there  had  been  other  ages 
not  a  whit  better,  in  which  men  had  arisen  who  had 
forced  the  world  into  higher  paths.  The  cry  of 
the  Crusader  never  rang  in  vain.  Give  men  a  cause 
worthy  of  their  sacrifice,  and  men  never  refused  the 
sacrifice.  Was  America  harder  to  be  moved  than 
all  other  nations  which  had  preceded  her?  He 
could  not  believe  it.  He  remembered  Gordon's 
words,  that  Americans  were  a  race  of  idealists,  and 
the  more  he  pondered  the  saying  the  more  he  recog- 
nized its  truth.  And  so  he  dreamed  a  vast  dream 
of  an  America  destined  to  lead  the  nations  in  the 
path  of  triumphal  altruism,  having  first  combined 
all  its  forms  of  religion  in  one  simple  synthesis, 
formulated  in  that  magnificent  prophetic  vision  of 
Gordon  of  a  church  freed  from  creeds  and  forms, 
whose  single  dogma  was  the  law  of  service. 

But  between  the  dream  and  its  realisation  there 
is  much  hard  country  to  be  traversed — a  terrible  and 
desert  country,  strewn  with  the  bones  of  idealists 


RENUNCIATION  153 

who  have  failed.  Gaunt  therefore  began  to  ad- 
vance with  caution.  He  took  Palmer  into  his  con- 
fidence, and  night  after  night,  when  New  York 
slept,  the  two  men  sat  together  discussing  plans  and 
schemes. 

"We  must  have  definite  principles  rather  than  a 
definite  plan,"  Palmer  constantly  reiterated.  "I 
don't  believe  in  machine-made  campaigns.  That 
may  be  a  Moltke's  idea  of  German  warfare,  but  it 
isn't  God's  idea  of  spiritual  warfare.  In  this  war- 
fare the  man  who  wins  is  the  man  who  does  not 
know  where  he  is  going.  He  is  content  to  start 
right,  and  leave  the  rest  with  God." 

"And  what  are  the  principles?"  Gaunt  replied. 

"The  first  is  that  you  can  do  nothing  within  the 
Church:  there  I  am  in  complete  agreement  with 
Gordon,"  said  Palmer. 

Gaunt  still  found  it  difficult  to  accept  this  princi- 
ple, because  he  was  more  of  a  churchman  than  he 
himself  knew.  He  had  been  bred  into  reverence  for 
the  Church,  he  had  breathed  its  atmosphere  all  his 
life,  and  in  spite  of  all  that  had  happened  he  still 
loved  it.  It  gave  him  a  homeless  feeling  to  imagine 
himself  shut  out  from  it. 

"You  must  start  fresh,  unhampered  by  tradition," 
insisted  Palmer.  "I  don't  undervalue  the  Church, 
it  is  full  of  good  and  kindly  people.  But  they  are 
all  of  the  conventional  type.  They  have  always  trav- 
elled on  a  good  state  road,  and  as  long  as  you  keep 
to  the  beaten  highway  they  will  follow  you.  But 


154     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

the  moment  you  enter  the  wilderness  they  will  balk 
at  it.  They  will  be  afraid." 

And  Gaunt  knew  that  it  was  true.  With  what 
infinite  difficulty  had  he  forced  upon  his  church  a 
few  trifling  innovations !  Palmer,  with  kindly  irony, 
reminded  him  of  how  trifling  these  innovations  were. 

"You've  got  rid  of  your  piffling  vesper  service, 
and  established  an  evening  service  of  the  popular 
type;  that's  a  very  modest  achievement,  but  it  has 
cost  you  weeks  of  argument,  and,  after  all,  there 
are  not  a  dozen  of  your  older  members  who  really 
approve  the  change.  You've  established  a  week 
evening  service  of  the  same  type,  with  even  more 
vehement  opposition  from  the  older  members.  That 
is  the  total  result  of  three  months'  anxiety  and  la- 
bour. And  you  can't  go  much  further,  remember." 

"Well,  it's  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge,"  said 
Gaunt. 

"Yes,  and  the  wedge  is  now  flattening  itself 
against  impenetrable  masonry." 

Gaunt  smiled  a  little  sadly  at  the  retort,  for  he 
felt  its  truth.  He  silently  reviewed  his  experiences, 
and  all  at  once  their  meaning  was  made  clear  to 
him.  He  saw  now  that  the  element  in  churches 
which  was  fatal  to  any  real  advance  was  the  ele- 
ment of  littleness.  They  were  managed  by  little 
people,  governed  by  little  ideas.  He  himself  had 
been  constantly  engaged  in  doing  little  things,  and 
so  were  most  ministers.  And  to  do  these  little 
things,  to  reconcile  disputes,  to  keep  people  sweet- 


RENUNCIATION  i$5 

tempered,  to  manage  small  clubs  and  societies,  de- 
manded as  much  nerve  and  skill  and  patience  as  were 
needed  to  conduct  the  national  government.  And  it 
seemed  as  if  there  were  something  inherently  en- 
feebling and  belittling  in  the  very  atmosphere  of  a 
church.  Men  who  knew  how  to  conduct  great  busi- 
nesses with  skill  and  success  no  sooner  sat  upon  the 
board  of  church  management  than  they  lost  their 
sagacity  and  power  of  initiative.  In  their  business 
houses  they  would  have  divined  the  need  for  some 
vast  change  of  strategy  by  a  kind  of  intuition,  and 
would  have  acted  on  it  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion. They  would  have  taken  broad  views  of  things, 
proved  themselves  wise  and  energetic  captains  of 
industry,  and  have  known  how  to  meet  emergencies 
with  brilliant  daring.  But  in  a  church  nothing  could 
be  done  without  tedious  argument.  More  words 
were  spent  over  a  matter  of  a  few  cents  than  would 
have  been  needed  in  the  business  office  for  the  expend- 
iture of  thousands  of  dollars.  How  was  it?  What 
did  it  mean?  And  Gaunt  saw  that  it  was  this  be- 
littling atmosphere  of  the  Church  which  was  to 
blame.  Every  ideal  was  narrow,  parochial;  there 
was  no  element  of  imperial  thinking.  How,  then, 
could  he  hope  to  create  within  the  Church  any  senti- 
ment for  an  ideal  so  new  and  catholic,  so  broad  and 
imperial,  as  this  ideal  of  a  universal  League  of 
Service,  as  the  one  sufficient  synonym  of  all  reli- 
gions ?  And  he  knew  that  he  could  not  do  it. 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  he  said  at  last.    "But  think 


156      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

mercifully  if  you  can,  of  my  reluctance  to  accept 
your  view." 

"I  respect  your  reluctance  too  much  to  think 
harshly  of  it,"  said  Palmer.  "I  myself  have  expe- 
rienced it.  Years  ago  when  I  broke  away  from  the 
organized  Church  I  did  so  with  infinite  misgiving. 
I  shall  never  forget  the  desolation  of  that  hour.  I 
seemed  to  have  left  behind  me  the  warm  hearth- 
stone of  home,  to  have  made  myself  an  outcast  who 
sees  nothing  confronting  him  but  a  homeless  waste, 
and  the  years  stretching  out  before  him,  bleak  and 
sterile,  and  interminable.  But  I  was  consoled  by  the 
thought  that  I  was  free.  The  road  might  be  bleak, 
but  an  invigorating  air  blew  over  it,  and  I  soon  found 
myself  acquiring  new  strength,  and  moving  with  a 
sense  of  liberty  that  I  had  never  known.  Freedom 
never  disappoints  her  lovers.  All  other  loves  fail, 
but  hers — never." 

"Well,  so  be  it,"  said  Gaunt. 

But  although  he  spoke  cheerfully,  there  was  mois- 
ture in  his  eyes,  when  he  recollected  all  that  the 
Church  had  been  to  him.  He  knew  that  those  mem- 
ories would  never  leave  him.  All  his  life  he  would 
see  the  dim  aisle  and  painted  windows,  would  hear 
the  soft  surge  of  familiar  music,  and  feel  the  thrill 
he  had  so  often  felt  on  entering  the  pulpit,  conscious 
of  the  waiting  gaze  of  many  hearers.  For  what- 
ever faults  may  be  alleged  against  the  Church,  it 
imposes  a  quiet  fascination  on  its  children,  which 
they  are  never  wholly  able  to  destroy.  It  calls  them 


RENUNCIATION  i$7 

with  so  many  voices,  and  each  is  a  memory.  It 
creates  a  nostalgia  which  endures  even  when  the 
nostalgia  of  country  is  forgotten.  In  the  moment 
of  renunciation  Gaunt  almost  forgot  all  the  faults  of 
the  Church,  as  a  man  forgets  when  the  last  parting 
comes,  all  the  errors  in  the  woman  he  has  loved, 
and  recounts  nothing  but  her  virtues  and  her  fair- 
ness. He  remembered  with  what  a  passion  of  in- 
toxicating hope  he  had  entered  on  his  work  at  May- 
field  Avenue;  with  what  pride  he  had  watched  the 
growth  of  that  work;  how  he  had  brought  his  young 
wife  there,  and  all  the  kindness  of  that  far-off 
time,  and  he  realized,  as  he  had  never  done,  how 
much  the  Church  had  meant  to  him.  Sleeping  and 
waking  through  all  these  seven  years  the  Church  had 
been  with  him.  He  had  pictured  himself  growing 
old  in  its  service,  inheriting  a  larger  reverence  and 
authority  with  the  years,  and  the  last  years  proving 
sweetest  in  their  complete  fulfilment  of  his  purposes 
and  hopes.  He  had  even  fancifully  pictured  to  him- 
self at  times  the  last  scenes  of  all;  how  his  final 
illness  would  be  announced  in  hushed  tones  from 
the  pulpit  where  he  had  so  often  stood,  how  its 
stages  would  be  followed  by  anxious  hearts,  how 
the  funeral  hymn  so  often  sung  for  others  would 
be  sung  for  him,  but  surely  with  a  deeper  feeling 
than  was  ever  known  before,  and  with  organ  notes 
that  had  more  of  wailing  in  them;  how  his  body 
would  lie  in  state  beneath  the  pulpit,  and  silent 
throngs  would  pass  by,  and  leave  their  offering  of 


i$8      A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

tears  and  flowers,  and  he  would  overhear  their  low 
comments  of  affection  and  remembrance.  All  that 
he  had  imagined,  and  now  he  knew  that  nothing 
of  it  was  true,  or  ever  could  be  true.  He  would  go 
away,  and  the  place  that  had  known  him  would 
know  him  no  more  forever.  And  if  he  came  back, 
behold  another  would  possess  his  heritage,  and  the 
old  forms  of  worship  would  be  going  on,  but  he 
would  be  forgotten,  or  remembered  only  as  a 
recusant. 

For  a  moment,  a  fractional  but  intense  moment, 
these  thoughts  and  fancies  raced  through  his  mind; 
they  passed,  and  with  them  the  weakness  that  begot 
them.  For  a  moment  he  envied  those  whose  lives 
lay  in  smooth  places,  whose  feet  moved  discreetly 
in  the  ordered  ways  that  led  to  honour  among  men, 
and  then  his  manlier  mind  prevailed. 

It  was  as  though  he  felt  upon  his  face  that  cold, 
invigorating  wind  of  freedom  of  which  Palmer  had 
spoken,  the  wind  that  calls  the  soul  to  the  open 
places  of  the  world.  And  then  that  thrill  which  he 
had  so  often  felt  in  watching  the  life  of  the  vast  city, 
that  life  in  which  men  took  chances  and  disasters 
with  such  a  smiling  courage,  such  a  strenuous 
eagerness  of  joy — that  old  strenuous  thrill  shot 
through  his  heart  afresh  with  a  violence  that  was 
almost  painful.  Surely  in  a  cause  so  great  he  could 
not  be  less  courageous  than  this  host  of  men,  whose 
incentives  to  exertion  were  so  much  less  than  his. 
And  suddenly,  with  that  thought,  it  seemed  as 


RENUNCIATION  159 

though  the  past  itself  sank  out  of  sight,  and  he  could 
have  laughed  aloud  at  those  morbid  fancies  which 
a  moment  earlier  had  possessed  his  mind.  A  new 
joy  was  born  in  his  heart — the  joy  of  going  on. 
It  is  the  most  vital  of  all  joys,  the  oldest,  the  noblest, 
out  of  which  have  been  born  all  the  adventures  of  the 
world — shared  alike  by  the  seaman  daring  strange 
seas,  the  Crusader,  the  pioneer,  the  soldier,  and 
the  spiritual  captain — greater  than  them  all, — whose 
beacon-light  is  truth,  whose  goal  is  wisdom. 

He  was  recalled  from  his  reveries  by  the  voice 
of  Palmer. 

"Well,  that  is  something  settled,"  he  said.  "And 
now  for  the  second  principle  which  should  guide  us. 
Here,  I  know,  you  won't  hesitate  even  for  a  moment. 
You  must  begin  with  the  poor." 

Yes,  there  was  no  contradiction  possible  on  that 
point,  since  all  history  proved  that  all  great  move- 
ments began  among  the  poor. 

"You  admit  the  principle  too  easily,"  said 
Palmer.  "You'll  find  that  very  few  people  will  agree 
with  you;  that,  in  fact,  the  trend  of  modern  thought 
is  all  the  other  way.  We  don't  object  to  pitying 
the  poor,  and  doing  something  for  them  if  we  have 
the  opportunity,  but  who  regards  them  as  the  one  class 
truly  capable  of  new  ideas  ?  Yet  it  is  really  so,  and 
that  is  why  Jesus,  with  an  infinite  sagacity,  went  to 
the  ranks  of  poverty  for  His  apostles.  Wesley  did 
it,  too ;  all  great  reformers  have  done  it.  They  knew 
that  the  sap  rises  from  the  root.  We,  less  wise, 


160     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

imagine  that  the  sap  permeates  downward  from 
the  branches.  Can  you  mention  any  great  reform 
that  has  begun  among  men  of  the  higher  classes?" 

"I  can  think  of  none/'  said  Gaunt.  "But  I  can 
think  of  many  movements  which  in  the  end  were 
led  by  men  of  the  higher  classes." 

"In  the  end — yes — when  the  sap  had  risen.  The 
fishermen  come  first,  however,  and  then  the  em- 
perors." 

Gaunt  laughed.  "What  a  splendid  professor  of 
church  history  you  would  have  made,  Palmer." 

"I  dare  say/'  said  Palmer,  "I  could  have  made  it- 
interesting.  However,  let  me  be  serious  on  this 
point,  because  I  regard  it  as  vital.  I  don't  want  you 
to  go  to  the  poor  out  of  pity;  if  you  do,  you  will  fail. 
I  want  you  to  have  a  genuine  faith  in  the  capacity 
of  the  poor  for  religious  leadership,  for  then  you 
will  succeed.  You've  just  got  to  believe  in  them, 
to  recognize  the  potency  that  is  in  them.  And  you'll 
find  that  all  sorts  of  influences  will  be  exerted  to 
draw  you  another  way,  and  if  you  yield  to  them 
you'll  lose  your  battle." 

"What  kind  of  influences?" 

"Well,your  own  aristocratic  tastes — for  one  thing. 
Oh,  you  need  not  laugh — you  know  you've  lived  like 
an  intellectual  aristocrat  for  a  good  many  years,  and 
you've  set  up  tendencies  in  your  mind  which  are  not 
easily  destroyed.  I  never  reflect  without  wonder 
on  the  sort  of  things  Wesley  did,  when  I  remember 
the  sort  of  man  Wesley  was.  For  he  was  an  intel- 


RENUNCIATION  161 

lectual  aristocrat  if  ever  there  was  one,  scholarly, 
and  fastidious  to  a  fault.  Of  course  he  had  plenty 
of  pity  for  the  poor,  as  a  man  of  his  philanthropic 
nature  would  have — he  had  it  even  in  his  Oxford 
days.  But  it  was  not  until  he  was  flung  pell-mell 
into  the  arms  of  the  poor  by  the  force  of  circum- 
stance that  he  learned  the  lesson  which  made  him 
the  greatest  religious  reformer  of  modern  times. 
What  was  that  lesson?  Why,  just  this,  that  the 
poor  were  more  accessible  to  religious  ideas,  and 
infinitely  more  capable  of  religious  passion,  than  all 
the  gentlemen  of  England  put  together.  So  he 
took  them  with  all  their  ignorance  and  lack  of 
manners  and  made  them  preachers.  He  trusted 
them,  and  learned  to  love  them.  He  found  them 
capable  of  the  kind  of  heroism  which  the  times  de- 
manded. They  made  the  movement.  They  became 
its  officers  and  leaders;  and  they  amply  justified  his 
faith  in  them.  By  and  by  the  movement  permeated 
upward — the  sap  rose.  But  it  began  among  the 
common  people,  it  was  generated  in  their  crude 
enthusiasm,  it  succeeded  by  their  sacrifice/' 

And  so  the  conversation  ranged  from  point  to 
point,  and  with  each  step  Gaunt  became  more  sure 
of  himself.  If  Gaunt  halted  for  a  moment,  Palmer 
spurred  him  on  with  ever  new  analogies  and  ob- 
servations drawn  from  wide  world-knowledge  and 
experience.  Very  few  men  of  all  those  who  know 
the  details  of  Gaunt's  subsequent  career,  know  how 
large  a  part  Palmer  had  in  shaping  it,  how  this  silent 


162      A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

man,  whose  voice  was  hardly  ever  heard  in  public, 
watched  over  the  soul  of  his  friend  with  loving 
jealousy,  and  guided  his  course  with  the  discretion 
of  a  large  wisdom  and  a  tireless  love.  A  book  has 
yet  to  be  written  on  the  silent  friends  of  great  re- 
formers, the  men  who  stood  behind  the  scenes  and 
were  content  to  be  unknown.  If  ever  it  is  written, 
as  it  should  be  written,  it  will  become  one  of  the 
great  books  of  the  world. 

In  these  midnight  conversations  the  plans  of  the 
new  movement  were  discussed  and  settled.  In  these 
discussions  Margaret  Gaunt  took  a  large  part,  and 
here  her  practical  intelligence  proved  of  great  value. 
Sometimes  Gaunt  chafed  a  little  under  her  criti- 
cism, and  good-humouredly  remarked  that  her  func- 
tion was  evident — it  was  to  put  the  brake  upon  the 
wheel;  to  which  she  replied,  as  gaily,  that  as  long 
as  she  did  not  apply  the  brake  when  the  coach  was 
going  up  the  hill  he  had  little  cause  to  complain. 
It  was  Margaret  Gaunt  who  insisted  that  the  move- 
ment must  be  started  in  some  conspicuous  way, 
because  in  New  York  publicity  was  absolutely  neces- 
sary to  success.  Palmer,  in  his  enthusiasm  for 
principles,  was  content  to  begin  anyhow;  he  was 
indifferent  about  the  exact  point  at  which  his  lever 
should  touch  the  world,  being  quite  assured  that 
once  applied  the  lever  would  do  its  work.  Gaunt 
took  the  same  view  out  of  humility.  The  meanest 
kind  of  mission-hall  would  have  contented  him.  But 
Margaret  insisted  against  them  both  that  a  big  idea 


RENUNCIATION  163 

must  be  interpreted  in  a  big  way.  Ocean  liners 
wanted  sea-room.  She  instanced  Gordon.  The 
League  of  Service  was  his  idea,  and  there  never  had 
been  a  man  better  fitted  to  interpret  it  to  the  world. 
How  was  it  then  that  he  had  done  nothing  ?  Simply 
because  he  shut  himself  up  in  a  little  mission-hall  in 
an  obscure  district,  as  if  he  wished  to  be  forgotten. 
He  had  spent  all  his  sanctity  and  genius  upon  a  few 
hundreds  of  people — he,  who  ought  to  have  been 
the  spiritual  captain  of  thousands. 

"Listen  to  me,"  she  said.  "If  Mayfield  Avenue 
Church  is  too  small  for  your  ideas,  how  can  you 
suppose  that  an  obscure  mission-hall  below  Four- 
teenth Street  will  be  big  enough  ?  It's  all  very  well 
to  talk  of  small  beginnings,  but  this  is  a  day  when 
small  beginnings  have  small  endings,  too.  Depend 
upon  it,  there's  nothing  so  respected  in  New  York 
as  audacity.  I  don't  worry  myself  whether  New 
York  is  right  or  wrong;  but  I  know  that  there's  ex- 
cellent authority  for  not  hiding  a  light  under  a 
bushel.  To-day  there's  no  choice  but  to  be  con- 
spicuous or  forgotten." 

"When  Margaret  quotes  Scripture,  there's  no 
chance  for  me,"  laughed  Gaunt. 

"It's  a  very  good  Scripture,  anyhow,"  retorted 
Margaret.  "I  never  did  believe  that  there  was  much 
virtue  in  humility,  at  least  in  that  kind  of  humility 
which  makes  men  do  little  things  because  they're 
easier  to  do  than  great  things.  That  kind  of  hu- 
mility looks  to  me  rather  like  cowardice." 


164     A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

They  argued  the  matter  a  long  time,  until  at  last 
Margaret's  view  prevailed,  for  the  longer  they 
studied  it  the  more  sound  and  sagacious  did  it 
appear.  Undoubtedly  it  was  true  that  New  York 
respected  only  big  ideas  which  were  interpreted  in 
a  big  way — it  was  characteristic  of  that  megalomania 
which  infected  all  the  thought  of  the  city.  It  was 
a  city  of  immense  industries,  businesses,  and  trading 
corporations,  and  the  power  of  each  had  been  built 
upon  the  widest  kind  of  publicity.  Politics  were 
guided  by  the  same  instinct.  The  politician  took 
care  to  engage  the  largest  halls,  to  address  as  many 
thousands  as  he  could  reach,  to  organize  an  adequate 
press  report  of  his  ideas.  Why  should  the  children 
of  light  be  less  energetic  and  sagacious  than  the  chil- 
dren of  this  world?  Here  was  an  idea  far  greater 
than  politician  had  ever  uttered,  a  scheme  that  would 
mean  far  more  in  the  national  life  than  half  a  century 
of  politics  had  meant,  a  reconstitution  of  the  entire 
religious  life  of  the  people,  the  creation  of  a  spiritual 
confederacy  which  would  in  time  dominate  both 
politics  and  government,  and  perhaps  supersede 
them;  and  did  not  this  also  demand  publicity  of  the 
widest  kind?  It  was  a  grandiose  conception — to 
flash  a  new  idea,  a  living  and  transforming  thought, 
simultaneously  upon  the  mind  of  an  entire  nation; 
to  write  it  on  the  heavens,  as  it  were,  so  that  no  man 
in  the  loneliest  backwood  or  the  most  distant  city, 
should  be  able  to  escape  its  message;  and  then  for 
America  to  become  the  religious  leader  of  the  world, 


RENUNCIATION  165 

to  give  the  world  the  Final  Church,  which  should 
include  all  men  and  absorb  all  religions,  and  should 
be  indestructible  because  it  was  based  on  pure  eternal 
truth.  .  .  .  Well,  if  this  final  triumph  was  never 
reached,  still  this  should  be  the  aim.  And  to  reach 
this  aim,  even  to  take  the  first  step  toward  it,  there 
must  be  a  scheme  of  action  full  of  daring,  which  the 
world  could  not  ignore. 

"We  must  begin  in  Madison  Square  Garden," 
said  Margaret,  with  quiet  emphasis. 

At  this  both  Gaunt  and  Palmer  vehemently  dis- 
sented. They  declared  such  an  idea  impossible  and 
absurd. 

But  Margaret  was  not  discouraged.  She  went  on 
to  impress  her  ideas  with  such  clearness  and  preci- 
sion that  at  each  stage  they  appeared  more  and  more 
practicable.  It  was  the  most  central  public  building 
in  New  York.  Poor  and  rich  could  reach  it  easily, 
and  it  was  the  kind  of  building  from  which  the  poor 
would  not  be  deterred.  It  was  probable  that  the 
poor  could  be  better  reached,  and  in  larger  numbers, 
in  that  vast  auditorium,  associated  with  every  form 
of  pleasure,  than  in  any  hall  of  less  commanding 
reputation  in  their  own  exact  neighbourhood.  It 
was  said  that  no  human  voice  could  be  heard  in  it; 
but  that  was  nonsense,  since  politicians  spoke  there 
constantly.  Then  the  very  vastness  of  the  venture 
would  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  the  city.  People 
would  throng  to  the  hall  in  thousands  out  of  mere 
curiosity,  if  for  no  better  reason.  And  so  the  League 


166     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

of  Service  would  be  created  in  a  day.  At  the  first 
sound  of  the  trumpet  an  army  would  respond  to 
the  call.  And  then  the  Press,  that  omnipotent  organ 
of  publicity,  unable  to  ignore  an  event  so  wonderful, 
and  itself,  perhaps,  converted  to  the  ideas  of  the 
League,  .would  disseminate  those  ideas  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific,  and  they  would  pass  around 
the  world,  like  seeds  blown  by  a  great  wind,  which 
fall  into  a  thousand  soils,  and  belt  the  globe  with 
verdure. 

"Yes,"  she  concluded,  "the  big  thing  is  always 
more  practicable  than  the  little  one.  I  have  much 
more  faith  in  you  than  you  have  in  yourselves — 
faith  enough  to  believe  that  you  will  succeed." 

And  so  Margaret  really  became  the  prophetess  of 
the  new  movement. 

As  objections  arose  she  overcame  them  one  by 
one,  buoyed  up  by  her  faith.  Perhaps  in  the  bottom 
of  her  heart  she  would  still  have  preferred  the  old 
quiet  ways;  but  having  once  renounced  them,  her 
surrender  to  the  new  idea  was  complete. 

"If  we  are  to  be  poor,  we  may  as  well  be  poor  to 
some  purpose/'  she  said.  "Let  us  sell  everything  we 
have  and  make  the  venture." 

And  so,  one  night  in  Gaunt's  quiet  library  the 
last  touches  were  put  to  the  great  scheme,  and  the 
last  sacrifice  determined  on.  They  resolved  to  ask 
no  one  for  money  for  its  initiation.  By  the  sale  of 
all  their  property  and  the  realisation  of  some  few 
securities  which  they  held,  the  Gaunts  calculated 


RENUNCIATION  167 

they  could  raise  a  few  thousand  dollars.  Palmer, 
fired  by  their  example,  was  ready  to  turn  into  cash 
about  fifty  thousand  dollars*  worth  of  investments, 
which  represented  the  savings  of  a  lifetime.  With 
this  capital  at  command  they  could  make  a  start, 
and  for  the  rest  they  had  a  boundless  faith.  If  they 
failed,  they  would  have  the  consolation  of  knowing 
that  it  was  in  a  great  cause;  but  their  faith  thrived 
upon  their  sacrifice,  till  each  reached  the  sublime 
optimism  of  the  enthusiast,  who  regards  failure  as 
impossible. 


XII 
FAREWELL  THE   OLD 

THE  Mayfield  Avenue  Church  was  crowded 
to  its  utmost  limits.  It  was  the  first  Sun- 
day morning  in  February.  On  the  pre- 
vious Sunday,  Gaunt  had  announced  that  on  this 
Sunday  he  proposed  making  a  statement  which 
affected  the  future  of  the  church  and  his  own  relation 
to  it.  This  announcement  had  had  the  effect  which 
might  have  been  expected.  Curiosity  was  whetted 
to  its  keenest  edge,  and  speculation  ran  high.  The 
Press,  which  had  been  silent  for  several  weeks, 
awoke  into  sudden  activity.  Far  and  wide  para- 
graphs had  been  circulated  containing  more  or  less 
exact  information  relating  to  the  church  and  its 
minister.  During  the  week  the  telephone  on  Gaunt's 
desk  had  been  ringing  incessantly.  Reporters  had 
dogged  his  steps,  letters  from  former  members  of 
the  church  had  reached  him,  asking  for  explanations. 
To  all  these  people  Gaunt  had  made  the  same  reply — 
let  them  be  present  on  the  morning  of  the  first  Sun- 
day in  February,  and  they  would  hear  all  he  had  to 
say;  until  then  he  intended  to  maintain  absolute 
silence. 

Roberts  had  been  among  the  first  to  seek  an  inter- 
view with  Gaunt.     He  came  early  on  the  Monday 

168 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  169 

morning  after  the  announcement,  precise  and  prim 
as  ever,  yet  plainly  agitated.  "What  was  the  nature 
of  the  expected  statement?"  he  asked  point-blank. 
Gaunt  quietly  answered  him  that  he  would  hear  in 
due  course;  but  this  reply  was  very  far  from  satis- 
factory to  Roberts.  He  ventured  to  hope  that  Gaunt 
was  not  about  to  do  anything  rash  or  ill-considered. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  Gaunt.  He  was  at  that  mo- 
ment giving  the  closest  consideration  to  his  state- 
ment, and  had  been  engaged  in  the  same  considera- 
tion for  weeks  past. 

"Ought  not  such  a  statement  to  be  made  first  to 
the  deacons?''  urged  Roberts.  They  were  the  au- 
thorized managers  of  the  church.  They  were  all 
tried  friends.  They  would  be  glad  to  advise  with 
him,  and  so  forth. 

Gaunt  had  his  own  opinion  about  the  friendship, 
which  he  did  not  state.  On  the  other  points  he  spoke 
plainly. 

"I  need  no  advice,"  he  said.  "I  do  not  recog- 
nize any  special  right  of  the  deacons  to  stand  be- 
tween myself  and  the  congregation  in  this  matter. 
What  I  shall  say  affects  the  entire  congregation,  and 
it  is  to  them  I  prefer  to  speak." 

Roberts'  agitation  increased  each  moment.  It 
was  in  part  resentment  at  Gaunt's  independence. 
Ever  since  the  refusal  of  the  salary  he  had  been 
chagrined  by  the  knowledge  that  Gaunt  had  escaped 
from  his  control,  that  he  had  no  real  hold  over  him. 
It  was  in  part  fear.  Who  could  foresee  what  a  man 


i;o     A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

so  eccentric  as  Gaunt  might  say?  Why,  he  might 
rip  up  the  whole  past;  declare  the  entire  story  of 
the  series  of  mean  economies  which  Roberts  had  in- 
augurated; repeat  things  that  happened  in  the 
secrecy  of  deacons'  meetings ;  in  fact,  expose  Roberts 
and  his  party  to  ridicule  and  blame.  Or,  again,  he 
might  be  about  to  propose  some  revolutionary  policy 
to  the  church.  Had  he  not  already  discontinued  the 
vesper  service  on  his  own  initiative,  and  covered  the 
neighbourhood  with  undignified  placards,  inviting 
people  to  a  week-night  service  which  was  in  the  na- 
ture of  a  crude  revival  meeting  ?  Had  he  not  already 
attracted  to  the  church  a  number  of  people  whom  no 
one  wished  to  see,  people  of  the  Plane  and  Scarlett 
type,  who  could  add  nothing  to  the  financial  strength 
of  the  church,  whose  very  presence,  indeed,  dimmed 
its  social  prestige  ?  And  now,  no  doubt,  some  other 
mad  scheme  was  afoot,  some  wild  appeal  to  the 
people,  the  effect  of  which  would  be  disastrous  to 
the  dignity  of  the  church.  Again  Roberts  felt,  as 
he  had  so  often  felt,  a  certain  incalculable  element 
in  Gaunt,  something  that  baffled  him,  that  made  him 
impotent,  that  dismayed  him. 

The  one  thing  which  he  did  not  suspect  was  that 
Gaunt  meditated  resignation.  He  knew  perfectly 
well  that  a  minister  rarely  resigned  a  church  with- 
out another  in  view,  and  he  shrewdly  calculated  that 
Gaunt' s  position  was  such  that  very  few  churches 
would  desire  his  services.  For  he  had  talked  with 
Jordan,  and  he  was  aware  that  Gaunt's  reputation 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  171 

was  greatly  compromised  by  what  nine  men  out  of 
ten  would  describe  as  his  "eccentric  behaviour." 
And  the  churches  wanted  not  eccentric  men,  how- 
ever gifted,  but  safe  men.  A  man  in  Gaunt's  posi- 
tion must  needs  stay  on  until  he  had  worn  out  his 
congregation  or  found  some  too  credulous  church 
willing  to  entrust  its  destinies  to  him.  But  that  he 
should  resign,  that  he  should  go  out  into  the  world 
penniless,  that  was  a  supposition  quite  incredible  to 
a  man  of  Roberts'  temperament,  to  whom  all  forms 
of  unselfishness  are  insanity,  and  all  self-sacrifice 
imposture.  Yet,  what  Roberts  could  not  see  nor 
suspect  was  already  evident  to  most  people.  It  was 
particularly  evident  to  Tasker,  who  called  on  Gaunt 
and  spent  nearly  an  hour  in  timorous  remonstrances. 
The  little  man  was  genuinely  grieved  at  the  turn 
affairs  had  taken,  and  he  also  hoped  that  Gaunt  was 
not  about  to  do  anything  rash.  Not  but  what  a  bold 
stroke  might  succeed,  but  then  there  were  other 
things  to  consider.  For  instance,  it  might  not.  On 
general  principles  he  favoured  the  safe  course.  No 
doubt  there  had  been  some  misunderstandings,  but 
then  they  were  not  all  on  one  side.  These  things 
acted  and  reacted.  Of  course  Gaunt  would  do  what 
he  thought  right — and  at  this  the  little  man's  voice 
vibrated  with  a  kind  of  Martin  Luther  "Here-I-take- 
my-stand"  accent;  but  then  other  people  must  be 
considered,  and  it  was  better  to  be  cast  into  the  sea 
with  a  millstone  round  your  neck  than  to  offend 
one  of  these  little  ones. 


A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

To  which  exposition  of  incompetence  Gaunt  lis- 
tened with  amused  interest,  wondering  all  the  time 
how  it  was  possible  for  men  of  Tasker's  tempera- 
ment to  go  through  the  world  at  all,  and  contrive 
to  make  money  enough  to  live — especially  that  world 
of  New  York,  where  the  man  who  did  not  know 
what  he  wanted  usually  got  nothing  at  all. 

So  the  week  passed,  and  the  morning  of  the  first 
Sunday  in  February  had  come,  Gaunt's  last  Sunday 
in  the  Mayfield  Avenue  Church,  and  the  church  was 
crowded. 

The  doors  were  no  sooner  open  than  people  began 
to  assemble.  Some  of  the  first  to  arrive  were  peo- 
ple from  distant  suburbs,  former  members,  who 
knew  very  little  of  the  later  developments  in  the 
church.  These  were  soon  beckoned  into  pews  occu- 
pied by  old  acquaintances,  and  wherever  they  came 
a  buzz  of  conversation  broke  out. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  was  the  one  question 
bandied  to  and  fro,  to  which  all  kinds  of  conflicting 
answers  were  returned. 

"Does  he  mean  resigning?" 

"We  think  so." 

"But  why?  What  have  you  been  doing  to  him?" 
said  one  irascible  old  gentleman,  who  had  been  a 
great  admirer  of  Gaunt  in  the  early  days  of  his  min- 
istry. Thereupon  some  one  began  to  whisper  to 
him  a  long  explanation,  which  evidently  afforded 
him  no  satisfaction,  for  the  irascible  old  gentleman 
declaimed  in  a  loud  voice  that  they  were  a  parcel 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  173 

of  fools,  who  didn't  know  when  they  were  well 
off. 

He  would  probably  have  said  much  more,  but  at 
this  moment  Mrs.  Somerset  swept  into  the  pew, 
with  a  sense  of  calm  proprietorship,  although  for 
months  she  had  not  occupied  it,  and  at  once  elevated 
her  lorgnette,  with  an  inimitable  insolence,  as  much 
as  to  say :  "Dear  me,  who  can  all  these  strange  peo- 
ple be  who  have  dared  to  invade  the  seclusion  of  a 
church  where  I  worship  ?" 

Still  the  crowd  flowed  in,  to  the  evident  surprise 
of  Roberts,  who  moved  up  and  down  the  aisles 
pale  and  anxious.  Very  soon  every  pew  was  filled, 
and  chairs  were  being  placed  inside  the  communion 
rails.  Among  the  late  comers  were  several  men 
prominent  in  the  higher  circles  of  New  York  life, 
whose  names  were  passed  from  lip  to  lip  in  excited 
whispers,  as  they  were  recognized.  With  them  came 
also  men  of  quite  another  class,  plainly  dressed  in 
decent  ready-made  clothes:  men  with  the  sturdy 
aspect  of  superior  mechanics,  with  thoughtful  eyes 
and  good  foreheads.  There  were  many  young  men 
and  a  few  fashionably-dressed  women  who  made  a 
point  to  miss  no  notable  event  in  the  life  of  the  city, 
the  kind  of  women  who  adore  Wagner  and  the- 
osophy  one  week,  and  run  after  the  latest  preacher 
or  boy-violinist  who  may  happen  to  be  the  fashion, 
the  next.  Every  moment  brought  its  sensation,  and 
the  climax  came  when  four  reporters  were  grudg- 
ingly afforded  places  just  beneath  the  pulpit,  and 


1/4      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

some  one  started  the  rumour  that  the  quiet  old 
gentleman  in  the  corner  beneath  the  gallery,  who 
had  the  air  of  a  substantial  farmer,  was  the  greatest 
millionaire  in  the  world,  and  that  his  neighbours 
were  two  celebrated  editors.  For  New  York,  that 
city  of  sensation,  much  more  avid  than  the  ancient 
Athens  for  any  new  thing,  had  divined  by  some 
swift  intuition  that  something  strange  was  fated  to 
happen  to-day,  and  that  behind  the  suggestive  para- 
graphs which  the  Press  had  flung  far  and  wide, 
there  was  something  concealed  much  more  important 
than  the  possible  resignation  of  a  noted  minister. 

Still  the  people  came,  till  now  every  chair  was 
occupied,  even  the  sacred  precincts  of  the  choir 
gallery  were  invaded,  and  the  vestibule  was  rilled 
with  people  for  whom  no  seats  could  be  obtained. 
As  the  time  for  the  commencement  of  the  service 
drew  near,  a  solemn  hush  fell  upon  the  great  assem- 
bly. And  then,  as  though  a  magic  wand  had  passed 
over  the  congregation,  some  of  those  more  serious 
elements  which  had  hitherto  been  concealed  began 
to  manifest  themselves.  A  subtle  change  passed 
over  the  faces  of  those  who  had  come  through  mere 
curiosity;  the  look  of  levity,  that  look  of  vivacious 
shallowness  so  common  in  a  New  York  crowd,  died 
away,  giving  place  to  grave  interest.  It  was  as 
though  everything  in  the  aspect  of  these  faces  had 
deepened;  something  real  was  urging  its  way 
through  the  veneer  of  the  artificial,  so  that  the  lines 
grew  sharp,  the  very  eyes  had  deeper  colour,  the 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  175 

fashion  of  the  countenance  was  changed.  And  now, 
too,  the  nobler  and  graver  faces  in  the  crowd  chal- 
lenged the  observant  eye.  There  were  many  such, 
the  faces  of  men  and  women  who  had  looked  upon 
the  tragedy  of  life;  whose  eyes  had  known  the 
terror  of  solitary  thought,  and  retained  the  shadow 
of  that  terror.  What  did  they  expect?  They  could 
not  have  said;  but  yet  they  betrayed  the  conscious- 
ness of  some  vast  anticipation,  as  though  from  some 
high  tower  of  silence  they  waited  for  the  day-spring. 
And  in  some  subtle,  wholly  inexplicable  manner, 
they  seemed  to  communicate  their  own  emotion  to 
the  crowd,  till  that  waiting  look  suffused  the  entire 
congregation.  It  spread  like  an  invisible  wave,  sub- 
merging in  its  flow  all  meaner  elements,  so  that  at 
last  the  silence  became  almost  painful  in  its  in- 
tensity. And  then,  with  a  shock  that  thrilled  the 
nerves,  the  first  low  note  of  the  organ  shook  the  air, 
and  the  strain  was  relaxed.  The  service  had  com- 
menced. 

Handel's  Largo  had  been  chosen  for  the  volun- 
tary, that  majestic  and  triumphant  expression  of 
human  desire  and  yearning  which  no  familiarity  can 
cheapen;  the  slow,  mighty  strains  filled  the  place 
with  a  sea  of  sound,  and  gradually  passed  into  the 
familiar  chords  of  the  Old  Hundred,  at  which  the 
whole  congregation  rose. 


"  Praise  Him  above,  ye  heavenly  host, 
Praise  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost/ 


176      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

sung  the  entire  congregation,  and  with  the  last  line 
of  the  hymn  Gaunt  entered  the  pulpit.  He  wore  no 
pulpit  robes;  he  had  laid  them  aside  for  the  first 
time;  and  their  absence  accentuated  the  firm  lines 
of  his  slight  figure.  He  was  pale  but  composed; 
only  the  hands,  tightly  clasped  before  him,  sug- 
gested the  nervous  strain  he  suffered.  As  he  stood 
there,  perfectly  silent  in  that  sea  of  sound,  a  strong 
impression  of  great  loneliness  was  created.  He  had 
not  the  majestic  height  of  Gordon,  he  had  not  his 
classic  beauty  of  feature;  but  some  of  the  older  men 
there,  who  remembered  Gordon  as  he  was  in  his 
prime,  were  instantly  reminded  of  him  as  they 
looked  on  Gaunt.  There  was  the  same  height  and 
breadth  of  brow,  over  which  the  dark  hair  fell  in  a 
tangled  cloud,  the  same  grave  and  sweet  expression 
of  the  lips;  but  the  chief  likeness  lay  in  the  sense 
of  intensity,  of  aloofness,  which  the  face  conveyed — 
that  unmistakable  glow  and  solitariness  which  one 
recognizes  on  the  faces  of  all  great  enthusiasts. 
Those  who  had  not  known  Gordon  simply  noted 
that  Gaunt  had  the  face  of  a  dreamer,  the  deep  mag- 
netic eyes  of  one  who  saw  visions;  a  poet's  face, 
thought  some;  a  musician's  face,  thought  others; 
only  here  and  there  were  those  who  gasped  the  truer 
diagnosis,  and  said,  "A  Prophet's  face." 

To  write  these  things  takes  much  longer  than  it 
did  to  realize  them.  The  impression  thus  created 
on  a  thousand  minds  was  rapid,  instinctive,  instan- 
taneous. Gaunt  lifted  his  hand  slowly  and  uttered 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  177 

a  few  words  of  simple  invocation.  His  voice,  a  high 
sweet  tenor,  of  unusual  clearness,  floated  over  the 
crowd  like  the  soft  stroke  upon  a  silver  bell,  and 
compelled  attention.  It  ceased,  and  once  more  the 
strain  was  relaxed.  People  settled  into  their  seats 
with  low  rustlings.  The  reporters  sharpened  their 
pencils;  the  artist  for  a  daily  journal  produced  his 
drawing  block  and  began  to  sketch  the  preacher.  It 
was  once  more  a  typical  New  York  crowd,  eager, 
curious,  avid  of  sensation,  whose  interrogatory 
eyes  seemed  to  say :  "What  have  we  come  out  into 
the  wilderness  to  see  ?" 

The  service  moved  on  in  its  usual  stately  course. 
There  were  two  anthems,  sung  exquisitely  by  the 
quartette,  for  in  Mayfield  Avenue  Church  fine  music 
was  a  tradition.  But  this  morning  they  attracted 
no  attention.  The  people  listened  indifferently,  al- 
most impatiently,  watching  for  the  moment  when 
Gaunt  would  speak.  There  was  but  one  sensation: 
when  the  hymn  before  the  sermon  was  reached 
Gaunt  directed  the  attention  of  his  hearers  to  the 
order  of  service  in  their  pews,  whereon  was  a  hymn 
not  found  in  the  ordinary  hymnal;  but  it  was  the 
most  suitable  he  could  find  for  the  occasion. 
The  hymn  was  "Rescue  the  Perishing/' 
He  read  the  first  verse  slowly  with  intense  em- 
phasis : 

"Rescue  the  perishing,  care  for  the  dying, 
Snatch  them  in  pity  from  sin  and  the  grave; 
Weep  o'er  the  erring  one,  lift  tip  the  fallen, 
Tell  them  of  Jesus,  the  mighty  to  save." 


i;8      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

The  members  of  the  quartette,  two  of  them  cele- 
brated concert-singers,  looked  at  each  other  in  sym- 
pathetic disdain.  The  organist  turned  to  them  and 
smiled.  When  Gaunt  had  given  them  the  hymn  for 
practice  on  Saturday  night,  the  organist  had  re- 
marked with  some  heat  that  the  tune  wasn't  even 
music,  it  was  mere  gimcrack  amateurism.  The 
quartette,  of  course,  shared  his  views,  and  hence 
their  ironical  glances.  He  felt  his  organ  was  dis- 
graced by  the  performance  of  such  doggerel,  and 
he  played  the  air  as  badly  as  he  dared.  But  to  his 
surprise  every  one  seemed  to  know  the  hymn.  They 
sang  it  with  such  heartiness  that  the  organ  was  in 
danger  of  being  drowned. 

"Rescue  the  perishing,  care  for  the  dying " 

What  memories  the  hymn  evoked !  The  thoughts 
of  many  in  that  throng  went  back  to  the  great  spirit- 
ual movements  of  an  earlier  time,  when  that  hymn, 
sung  by  thousands  upon  thousands  in  vast  halls,  had 
conquered  the  most  fastidious,  penetrated  alike  cot- 
tages and  mansions,  and  had  even  invaded  whole 
cities  with  its  simple  pathos  and  infectious  melody. 
The  thoughts  of  others  went  back  to  hill-side  farms, 
and  shingled  meeting-houses  in  the  lonely  fields, 
and,  perhaps,  to  mothers  and  fathers  long  since  dead, 
and  brothers  and  sisters  long  since  separated,  all  of 
whom  had  once  sung  that  hymn.  And  the  thoughts 
of  some,  it  may  be,  invoked  painful  memories  of 
friends  and  children,  gone  far  hence,  no  one  knew 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  179 

where,  into  the  desert-places  of  the  world  where 
folly  finds  a  refuge,  and  dishonour  the  shelter  of 
obscurity.  So  all  sang  it,  even  the  fashionably- 
dressed  women  who  knew  no  God  but  Wagner;  and 
somehow,  before  it  was  done,  the  organ  was  pouring 
out  its  fullest  music,  and  the  members  of  the  quar- 
tette were  leading  and  dominating  all  that  wave 
of  sound,  and  had  forgotten  their  disdain. 

"Back  to  the  narrow  way  patiently  win  them, 
Tell  the  poor  wand'rer  a  Saviour  had  died," 

sung  the  people,  and  then  came  a  great  silence,  for 
at  last  Gaunt  had  risen  to  address  them. 

He  took  no  text;  he  began  abruptly  with  a  ques- 
tion :  Did  they  believe  in  the  spirit  and  meaning  of 
the  hymn  which  they  had  just  sung?  The  perishing, 
the  fallen,  the  wandering — they  were  everywhere. 
There  was  not  a  street  in  New  York  in  which  they 
might  not  be  found.  The  tragedy  represented  in 
these  words  was  found  in  Fifth  Avenue  palaces  as 
well  as  East  Side  slums.  For  wherever  men  had  not 
the  right  ideals  of  life  they  were  perishing;  wher- 
ever they  sinned  against  those  ideals  they  were 
fallen;  wherever  they  forgot  them  they  were  wan- 
dering. 

The  hymn  spoke  of  rescuing  the  perishing — did 
they  believe  that  rescue  was  possible?  Of  course 
they  would  say  that  they  did;  it  would  be  incon- 
sistent with  their  pride  in  human  nature  and  the 
orthodox  creed  of  Christianity,  to  say  otherwise. 


i8o      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

But  men  only  really  believed  what  they  practised. 
Had  they  ever  really  tried  to  rescue  any  one,  who, 
from  whatever  cause,  was  perishing,  or  fallen,  or 
wandering?  Did  the  Church  itself  conform  to  the 
ideal  of  a  vast  Rescue  Society,  affording  its  help  to 
those  who  needed  it  most?  Was  it  not  evident 
enough  that  the  chief  function  of  the  modern 
Church  appeared  to  be  not  to  capture  the  sinners,  but 
to  coddle  the  saints — and  poor  saints  at  that,  he 
added. 

A  smile  went  round  the  congregation.  The  clos- 
ing epigram  stuck,  and  the  reporters  noted  it,  as  a 
capital  headline  for  "the  story"  that  would  adorn 
the  papers  next  morning. 

Gaunt  was  so  intent  upon  his  theme  that  he  did 
not  notice  this  demonstration.  He  went  on  with 
unruffled  gravity  to  develop  his  address.  He  drew 
a  rapid,  vivid  picture  of  the  complexity  and  confu- 
sion of  New  York  life:  one  set  of  people  half- 
frantic  with  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  another  of 
gold ;  the  flaring,  splendid  city,  where  even  the  night 
brought  no  hours  of  stillness,  pouring  out  its  life  in 
a  passion  of  work  and  waste,  and  all  the  time  men 
and  women  falling  by  the  way,  crushed,  unnoticed 
beneath  this  flower-decked  Juggernaut  of  gold — 
genius  sucked  down  into  the  mire  of  shame,  talents 
thrown  away,  honour  despoiled;  and  towering  over 
all,  the  Church,  august,  magnificent,  but  dumb,  help- 
less, deafened  by  the  clamour,  and  more  and  more 
forgotten  by  the  thoughtless  crowd  who  mocked  its 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  181 

impotence.  And  then,  with  a  burst  of  passion,  he 
pictured  how  the  best  men  of  all  countries,  weary 
of  the  Church,  were  combining  in  their  own  way  to 
help  the  world  which  the  Church  had  forgotten. 
America  had  its  labour  unions,  entirely  independent 
of  the  Church;  Russia  had  its  secret  revolutionary 
tribunals;  France  had  had  its  "Christs  of  the  bar- 
ricades." 

"Think,"  he  cried,  "of  what  has  been  going  on 
in  Russia  for  fifty  years.  Picture  to  the  mind  that 
immense  army  of  heroic  men  and  women,  who  have 
tramped  in  chains  all  the  three  thousand  miles  from 
Moscow  to  Siberia  upon  a  road  of  infamy,  suffering 
every  indignity,  exposed  to  shameful  insult,  living 
and  dying  in  an  exile  worse  than  death,  and  all  for 
what?  That  some  day,  through  their  sacrifice,  jus- 
tice and  liberty  might  be  won  for  Russia.  Oh,  it  is 
no  longer  under  the  Cross  of  Christ  that  the  great 
sacrifices  are  being  made  for  the  regeneration  of 
mankind;  it  is  under  the  flag  of  politics;  it  may  be 
even  under  the  blood-stained  flag  of  revolution. 
And  what  road  of  wounds  have  we  ever  trodden 
for  the  sake  of  mankind?  We,  the  representatives 
of  a  church  whose  symbol  is  the  Cross?  Alas, 
is  it  not  true,  even  of  the  best  of  us,  that  our  reli- 
gion has  been  a  gratification — rarely  or  never  a 
sacrifice  ?" 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  face  tense  and  pale,  his 
voice  vibrating.  Reproach,  pity,  accusation  all 
mingled  in  its  tone;  and  through  all  there  throbbed 


182      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

something  deeper,  a  certain  wailing  note,  the  sob  of 
the  soul. 

Then  he  began  to  speak  again  in  more  even  tones. 
What  did  these  things  mean?  They  indicated  a 
world-wide  movement,  whose  dominant  note  was 
hostility  to  the  Church.  One  day  it  was  Russia, 
another  it  was  France,  but  the  same  thing  always: 
the  story  of  men  seeking  to  deliver  their  brethren 
from  bondage  without  reference  to  the  Church,  be- 
cause they  had  learned  to  regard  the  Church  either 
as  effete  or  else  as  the  friend  of  wealth,  the  ally  of 
tyranny,  the  enemy  of  progress.  Yet  the  Church 
probably  contained  the  majority  of  the  best  people 
on  earth,  people  who  were  kindly,  charitable,  and 
incapable  of  wilful  cruelty.  What  could  explain 
such  an  almost  incredible  paradox?  Simply  this, 
that  the  Church  had  forgotten,  except  in  isolated 
lives  and  instances,  the  original  mandate  to  seek  and 
save  the  lost.  It  existed  for  self-culture,  not  for 
conquest.  It  had  lost  its  world-vision,  its  early 
flame  of  propaganda.  It  was  content  to  maintain 
its  life  by  the  accretions  of  the  hereditary  good,  the 
people  to  whom  church-going  was  a  tradition, 
though  even  that  tradition  was  fast  losing  its  au- 
thority. And  worse  than  all,  and  at  the  root  of  all, 
was  an  absolutely  wrong  conception  of  what  mem- 
bership in  the  Church  of  Christ  meant.  It  meant 
with  many  a  creed ;  with  others  a  profession  of  faith 
or  experience.  But  this  was  never  the  intention  of 
its  Founder.  He  attached  no  importance  to  what 


FAREWELL    THE    OLD  183 

men  said,  whether  it  was  about  themselves  or  Him. 
His  test  was  at  once  more  severe  and  more  simple. 
It  was  to  follow  Him,  to  do  the  things  He  did,  to 
reproduce  His  spirit  and  His  life.  In  other  words, 
the  one  unalterable  ideal  of  all  membership  in  a 
Christian  church  was  service.  To  live  for  others, 
actively,  positively;  to  be  always  thinking  of  them, 
toiling  for  them,  suffering  for  them,  and  if  needs  be, 
ready  to  die  for  them;  to  do  this,  each  man  for  him- 
self, not  leaving  it  to  the  occasional  hero,  or  paying 
missionaries  to  do  it  for  us;  this  was  the  one  eternal 
ideal  of  Christianity.  Because  the  Church  had  for- 
gotten the  ideal  of  service,  she  had  failed;  she  had 
but  to  recover  this  ideal  to  attract  to  her  multitudes, 
of  men  who  were  now  hostile  to  her,  not  because 
they  disbelieved  her  truths,  but  because  she  herself 
had  denied  them. 

And  then  the  climax  came,  with  the  same  abrupt- 
ness which  had  marked  the  opening  question  of  his 
address.  For  a  moment  Gaunt  stood  perfectly  still, 
slowly  letting  his  gaze  sweep  across  the  eager  con- 
gregation. It  was  a  long  gaze  of  farewell,  of  renun- 
ciation; and  those  nearest  to  him  read  its  meaning. 

"The  Church  in  its  present  form  cannot  conquer 
the  world.  The  form,  therefore,  must  perish  that 
the  spirit  may  be  freed.  Let  us  demolish  all  but  the 
imperishable  foundations;  let  us  build  a  new  church 
whose  only  creed  is  love,  whose  only  test  is  service. 

"To  this  great  end  I  pledge  my  life. 

"To  accomplish  it  my  first  step  is  clear.    From  this 


184     A    PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

church,  and  from  all  churches,  I  pass  out  to-day 
and  forever. 

"A  month  from  to-day,  on  the  first  Sunday  of 
March,  I  shall  endeavour  to  interpret  the  ideals  I 
have  announced  in  practice. 

"I  shall  invite  all  who  feel  the  need  for  such  a 
movement  to  meet  me  in  Madison  Square  Garden, 
where  the  first  meeting  of  the  League  of  Service 
will  be  held." 

The  sensational  moment  for  which  the  congrega- 
tion had  so  long  waited  had  come  at  last.  "A 
League  of  Service" — "Madison  Square  Garden" — 
involuntarily  a  thousand  lips  repeated  the  words, 
some  in  pure  astonishment,  some  in  consternation, 
not  a  few  in  derision.  The  reporters  alone  were 
exultant:  they  had  found  a  much  bigger  "story" 
than  had  seemed  possible.  The  church  buzzed  like 
a  hive.  No  one  heard  the  last  hymn  announced.  It 
seemed  to  peal  forth  of  itself,  as  if  the  soul  of  the 
organ  had  found  a  voice — it  alone  responding  to  the 
daring  of  the  voice  that  had  just  ceased. 

"Onward  Christian  soldiers, 
Marching  as  to  war." 

During  the  singing  of  the  hymn  Gaunt  left  the 
pulpit  and  the  church. 


XIII 

AN  INTERVIEW 

GMJNT  left  the  church  by  his  vestry  door, 
and  walked  rapidly  through  the  deserted 
streets  to  Central  Park.  He  felt  an  im- 
perious need  of  solitude.  Not  then  could  he  have 
spoken  even  to  those  who  most  shared  his  intimacy; 
he  was  realizing  that  in  all  the  great  moments  of 
life,  whether  of  triumph  or  defeat,  lover  and  friend 
are  put  far  from  us.  Hitherto  his  course  had  been 
largely  shaped  by  others — by  Palmer,  by  Gordon, 
by  the  practical  but  daring  counsels  of  his  wife.  He 
had  been  conscious  of  a  force  not  born  within  him- 
self, that  had  carried  him  whither  he  would  not,  a 
wind  of  God  that  had  taken  him  up  and  borne  him 
afar.  He  was  conscious  of  that  still;  but  now  he 
resumed  the  captaincy  of  his  own  soul;  and  with  a 
sense  of  awe  and  utter  humbleness  he  realized  that 
henceforth  he  must  guide  others,  he  was  the  ap- 
pointed leader,  and  he  sought  the  baptism  of  soli- 
tude for  the  strengthening  of  his  spirit. 

The  winter  sunshine  filled  the  Park;  the  air  was 
crisp  and  sparkling.  Already  the  faint  footsteps 
of  advancing  spring  could  be  heard,  as  one  who 
hears  beneath  the  ice  the  flow  of  living  rivers.  His 
own  mind  caught  at  the  parable.  The  ice  of  con- 

185 


186     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

vention  which  had  long  imprisoned  his  heart  was 
breaking,  the  living  waters  of  a  new  faith  and  pur- 
pose were  rising.  A  gush  of  thankfulness,  which 
was  almost  ecstasy,  flooded  all  his  nature.  Hope,  an 
angel  with  furled  bright  wings,  walked  beside  him, 
talking  with  him  in  a  joyous  language. 

To  men  upon  the  brink  of  great  battles  God 
allows  such  hours,  for  without  them  great  battles 
could  not  be  fought.  Ecstasy  visits  man  but  rarely; 
it  is  the  sacred  wine  God  keeps  for  the  great  occa- 
sions and  the  sacramental  feasts  of  life.  Gaunt 
drank  of  it  now,  and  tasted  its  divine  inebriation. 
He  trod  on  air,  his  feet  were  among  the  stars. 
Failure  seemed  impossible,  conquest  certain.  And 
if  success  came,  it  would  not  be  his;  he  was  but 
the  vehicle  of  some  Higher  Power,  his  warfare  but 
the  vindication  of  mighty  strategies  designed  long 
since  in  the  council  chambers  of  the  Infinite.  He 
rested  in  that  thought,  conscious  of  his  entire  relin- 
quishment  of  self.  Henceforth  he  was  a  surren- 
dered man,  his  life  a  surrendered  life.  In  the  eternal 
rhythm  of  things  he  had  found  his  place;  no  longer 
would  he  know  the  vain  perturbations  of  pride,  or 
enmity,  or  inordinate  desire;  whatever  happened  he 
would  not  know  them,  for  he  had  found  the  peace 
that  passeth  understanding.  The  battle  might  go  ill 
or  well,  but  for  him  the  issue  was  assured. 

In  the  meantime  the  sensation  created  by  Gaunt' s 
action  was  immense. 


AN    INTERVIEW  187 

"It  is  a  dreadful  mistake,"   said  Tasker,  in   a 
lamentable    voice.     "If    he    had    only    consulted 


me." 


"He  is  intoxicated  with  vanity,"  said  Small,  in 
angry  tones.  "Madison  Square  Garden,  indeed !  You 
mark  my  words,  he  won't  attract  a  hundred  people, 
and  it  holds  twenty  thousand." 

"He^s  mad,"  said  Roberts,  vindictively.  "I  told 
him  so  long  ago.  I  saw  it  coming  on;  and  warned 
him.  The  church  will  never  recover  from  to-day's 
disgrace." 

All  over  the  church  people  gathered  in  groups  dis- 
cussing the  affair.  The  verdict  appeared  general 
that  Gaunt  was  mad.  It  was  the  bigness  of  the 
scheme  that  stunned  them.  Had  Gaunt  merely  re- 
signed to  accept  another  call,  or  to  enter  on  some 
evangelistic  work  upon  a  humble  scale,  they  could 
have  understood  it;  but  the  idea  of  Madison  Square 
Garden,  of  a  League  of  Service  which  was  meant  to 
absorb  all  churches,  and  supplant  them,  overwhelmed 
them. 

There  were  others,  however,  to  whom  the  very 
bigness  of  the  idea  was  its  attraction.  Within  an 
hour  of  the  close  of  the  service  there  was  a  hasty 
editorial  discussion  in  the  office  of  the  most  influ- 
ential newspaper  in  New  York.  Its  editor  had  been 
one  of  those  who  had  heard  Gaunt. 

"He  will  go  far — he  has  a  great  idea,  and  he 
believes  in  it,"  was  his  outspoken  comment. 

He  was  a  man  accustomed  to  handling  big  ques- 


188      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

tions  in  a  big  way.  In  the  public  life  of  New  York 
no  man  exercised  such  influence  as  Butler  of  The 
Daily  Light.  By  many  he  was  accounted  cynical, 
by  others  unscrupulous ;  but  no  one  ever  doubted  the 
singular  penetration  of  his  judgment.  He  possessed 
in  its  extreme  development  that  journalistic  sense — 
a  kind  of  sixth  sense — which  discerns  instinctively  the 
course  human  thought  and  events  are  likely  to  take. 
Again  and  again  he  had  taken  up  causes  which 
seemed  insignificant  and  unpopular,  and  in  a  few 
weeks  had  made  them  the  burning  questions  of  de- 
bate throughout  the  nation.  As  he  listened  to  Gaunt 
that  morning,  he  had  again  discerned  such  a  cause. 
He  was  not  religious  in  any  conventional  sense,  but 
like  most  intellectual  men  of  his  calibre  he  took  a 
deep  private  interest  in  religion.  Those  who  called 
him  a  cynic  had  often  been  surprised  to  find  in  his 
editorials  a  kind  of  prophetic  note,  which  seemed 
wholly  at  variance  with  his  caustic  and  biting  style. 
The  fact  was  that  his  cynicism  was  but  the  reverse 
side  of  his  moral  earnestness.  He  knew  too  much 
of  the  seamy  side  of  life  to  have  much  respect  for 
men  and  their  motives;  but,  perhaps  that  very  knowl- 
edge made  him  all  the  more  vigilant  to  discover  a 
man  whose  motives  were  really  pure,  and  all  the 
readier  to  welcome  him. 

He  had  gone  to  hear  Gaunt  that  morning  in  search 
of  a  sensation,  but  the  simplicity  and  directness  of 
Gaunt's  address  had  first  charmed  him,  and  then  set 
him  thinking.  He  had  expected  the  usual  common- 


AN    INTERVIEW  189 

place  of  the  religious  enthusiast,  and  he  had  heard 
them  too  often  to  attach  much  value  to  them.  They 
were  almost  always  the  fruit  of  ignorance  and  fanat- 
icism. But  here  was  a  man  who  had  genuine  ideas, 
and,  as  he  soon  perceived,  ideas  based  on  wide  and 
clear  deductions.  He  listened  with  the  interest  that 
any  intellectual  man  has  in  the  exposition  of  real 
ideas.  The  leaves  of  his  own  life  were  turned  back. 
In  the  first  flush  of  his  youth  he  had  been  attracted 
by  the  ministry,  and  had  been  designed  for  it  by  his 
father,  himself  a  famous  minister.  But  he  had  sor- 
rowfully confessed  that  there  was  too  much  in  his 
father's  life  to  make  the  idea  of  the  ministry  attract- 
ive to  himself.  He  had  seen  his  father  persecuted 
for  heresy,  suffering  all  kinds  of  humiliations  at  the 
hands  of  little  and  ungenerous  men,  triumphing  over 
them  in  the  end,  it  was  true,  but  at  what  a  price  ?  He 
had  died  at  fifty,  worn  out  with  the  long  contention, 
and  it  was  at  his  father's  death-bed  Butler  had  re- 
nounced the  ministry.  He  entered  the  eager  world 
of  journalism,  rose  rapidly,  and  at  forty  occupied 
the  editorial  chair  of  The  Daily  Light.  But  his 
interest  in  religion  had  never  left  him.  He  had 
struck  many  hard  blows  against  mere  religiosity, 
but  never  one  against  religion.  And  now,  as  Gaunt 
spoke,  he  found  his  own  early  ideas  of  religion 
miraculously  reinvigorated.  A  Church  wholly 
freed  from  creed,  wholly  based  on  service — yes,  he 
had  once  imagined  such  a  thing  possible,  a  thing  to 
dream  of,  at  least;  and  here  at  last  was  a  man  who 


190      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

believed  in  it  not  as  a  dream,  but  as  a  practicable 
reality. 

There  was  another  thing,  too,  which  attracted 
Butler.  He  knew,  better  than  most  men,  for  from 
his  desk  he  touched  the  centres  of  thought  in  every 
country,  how  true  it  was  that  in  every  country  there 
was  a  revolt  against  organized  forms  of  religion.  The 
legions  of  that  revolt  could  be  counted  by  millions. 
What  if  the  time  had  really  come  to  interpret  this 
revolt,  to  rescue  it  from  the  cold  shadows  of  nega- 
tion, to  weld  the  idea  into  a  vast  constructive  force  ? 
What  if  the  man  had  come  at  last  capable  of  this 
crusade,  a  crusade  which  would  appeal  to  all  the 
thinking  people  of  America,  and  not  of  America 
alone,  but  of  all  lands  not  heathen  ? 

His  blood  thrilled  at  the  thought,  and  then  ran 
cold  with  caution. 

The  supreme  journalistic  sense  was  now  thor- 
oughly awake  and  vigilant.  He  was  tempted  to  play 
for  such  tremendous  stakes,  but  he  must  be  sure  that 
he  made  no  error  in  his  judgment.  He  listened  to 
Gaunt  with  the  keenest  criticism,  weighing  every 
word,  watching  every  gesture,  absorbed  in  the  en- 
deavour to  read  his  soul.  He  satisfied  himself  of 
Gaunt' s  sincerity  and  the  dynamic  force  of  his  ideas. 
But  there  still  remained  one  question.  They  were 
big  ideas,  but  could  he  interpret  them  in  a  big  way  ? 
Then  there  came  the  abrupt  announcement  of  a 
League  of  Service,  and  a  movement  which  needed 
nothing  less  than  the  vast  auditorium  of  Madison 


AN    INTERVIEW  191 

Square  Garden  for  its  inauguration !  Butler's  heart 
shouted  in  him.  He  saw  at  a  glance  all  the  possi- 
bilities of  the  new  movement;  he  felt  rather  than 
recognized  the  advent  of  the  "psychologic  mo- 
ment." 

"He  will  go  far;  he  has  a  great  idea.  I  believe 
in  it,"  he  said.  "And  I  will  support  him/'  he  added. 

That  was  why  there  was  a  hasty  editorial  con- 
sultation in  the  office  of  The  Daily  Light,  while 
Gaunt  was  communing  with  his  soul  in  Central 
Park. 

"Give  it  headlines,  and  two  columns  at  least/1  he 
said.  "I  will  write  an  editorial  on  it.  This  is  the 
biggest  thing  that  has  happened  in  a  generation,  I 
tell  you." 

"No  bigger  than  the  insurance  scandals,  surely," 
said  the  sub-editor. 

"Pooh,  that  only  touched  men's  pockets.  This 
touches  their  thoughts,  themselves,  their  souls.  In 
a  month's  time  nothing  else  will  be  talked  of  from 
New  York  to  San  Francisco." 

The  incredulous  sub-editor  went  away  endeavour- 
ing to  fortify  himself  with  the  recollection  of  other 
occasions  on  which  his  chief  had  proved  mysteriously 
right  when  every  one  else  had  supposed  him  wrong; 
and  Butler  sat  down  to  write  his  editorial. 

It  was  a  striking  editorial:  every  one  acknowl- 
edged that  next  morning.  It  was  one  of  those  per- 
fectly balanced  pieces  of  reasoning  and  generalisa- 
tion which  can  be  achieved  only  by  trained  skill,  at 


IQ2      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

its  highest  point  of  efficiency;  yet  it  had  heat  in  it,  a 
flame  of  passionate  conviction,  all  the  more  impres- 
sive by  being  restrained. 

Butler  noticed  with  a  grim  pleasure  that  at  all 
events  he  had  not  misinterpreted  the  sensational 
value  of  the  incident,  for  three-fourths  of  the  New 
York  papers  gave  full  reports  of  Gaunt's  address, 
with  more  or  less  sympathetic  comments. 

Yet,  it  must  be  owned,  Butler  was  not  without 
certain  qualms  of  misgiving.  He  knew  too  well 
the  levity  of  the  New  York  mind,  its  strange  ca- 
prices, the  rapidity  with  which  it  enthroned  popular 
idols,  and  the  recklessness  with  which  it  forgot  them. 
It  came  to  him  suddenly  that  it  was  ten  chances  to 
one  that  Gaunt  was  not  the  sort  of  man  who  knew 
how  to  organize  victory.  And  this  was  a  case  in 
which  victory  must  be  organized.  He  resolved  to 
see  Gaunt  at  once.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when 
Butler  arrived  at  Gaunt's  house.  He  found  him 
seated  at  his  library  table  with  Palmer,  and  both 
men  were  busy  over  an  immense  pile  of  letters  and 
telegrams  which  had  arrived  since  the  morning. 
Gaunt  hastened  to  thank  him  for  his  article,  com- 
menting on  its  generosity. 

"Well,  it  is  about  that  article  I  have  come,"  said 
Butler.  "You  will  not  need  to  be  told  that  I  agree 
in  your  position.  But  we  are  only  at  the  beginning 
of  the  battle,  and  if  I  am  really  to  help  you  I  must 
have  some  knowledge  of  your  plans  of  campaign." 

He  spoke  in  dry,  clear  tones,  with  a  certain  busi- 


AN    INTERVIEW  193 

ness-like  precision.  Gaunt  felt  a  sense  of  disap- 
pointment. He  had  imagined  from  the  article  that 
its  writer  was  capable  of  enthusiasm :  he  saw  before 
him  a  middle-aged  man,  with  a  pale,  serious  face, 
a  fine  head  partly  bald,  fringed  with  iron-gray  hair, 
and  rather  the  appearance  of  a  clever  lawyer  than 
of  the  prophetic  exponent  of  religious  ideas.  Butler 
easily  guessed  the  nature  of  Gaunt's  impression. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  very  practical  man,"  he  resumed.  "For 
all  I  know  you  may  be  one,  too;  but  I  imagine  you 
are  better  able  to  conceive  great  ideas  than  to  equip 
them  with  practical  forms." 

"I  am  afraid  that  is  true,  in  the  latter  clause  at 
least,  and  my  only  consolation  is  that  my  friend 
Palmer  is  less  practical  than  I,"  replied  Gaunt. 

"Probably  that  is  where  I  may  be  of  service/' 
said  Butler. 

He  then  began  to  engage  both  men  in  conversa- 
tion, using  all  his  diplomatic  skill  to  draw  out  their 
thoughts.  An  hour  passed,  they  were  still  talking, 
and  not  once  had  this  vigilant  inquisition  into 
Gaunt's  ideas  and  character  been  relaxed.  Yet  so 
skilful  was  Butler  that  Gaunt  had  been  conscious 
of  no  inquisition.  He  had  yielded  himself  up  wholly 
to  Butler's  interrogations,  with  a  sincerity  and  mod- 
esty which  deepened  Butler's  regard  for  him,  and 
quickened  Butler's  sense  of  Gaunt's  intellectual 
qualities. 

"And  now,"  said  the  great  editor,  "I  think  we 
understand  each  other.  May  I  presume  upon  a  very 


194      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

short  acquaintance  to  give  you  some  practical 
hints?" 

"Certainly.    You  will  increase  my  obligation." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Butler,  "don't  be  above  using 
plain  and  rough  weapons.  I  don't  ask  you  to  lower 
your  standards  in  any  way;  but  recollect  the  world 
is  a  pretty  rough  place,  dominated  by  practical 
forces,  and  therefore  impatient  of  purely  abstract 
ideas.  Do  you  mind  telling  me  what  is  the  nature 
of  that  pile  of  telegrams  and  letters  which  I  see  upon 
the  table?" 

"Not  at  all,"  said  Gaunt.  "Most  of  them  are  full 
of  kindly  enthusiasm;  not  more  than  two  or  three 
are  hostile." 

"But  do  they  put  no  questions?" 

"Why,  yes.  Almost  everybody  wants  to  know 
what  I  propose  to  do." 

"Exactly.  They  approve  the  idea,  but  they  want 
to  reduce  it  to  practical  forms." 

"Isn't  it  early  to  ask  that?" 

"Not  at  all.  Do  you  know  what  every  one  in  New 
York  is  asking  to-day?  They  are  saying,  Is  this 
man  a  dreamer  or  a  man  of  action?  Oh,  I  know 
that  to  be  capable  of  great  dreams  is  the  noblest 
distinction  in  the  world — all  great  men  have  been 
dreamers  who  have  dreamed  true.  But  the  men 
who  have  really  moved  the  world  have  been  men 
who  knew  how  to  make  their  dreams  come  true. 
I  need  not  give  you  instances — you  can  easily  supply 
them, — but  I  suppose  Loyola  is  as  striking  as  any. 


AN    INTERVIEW  195 

He  had  his  dream,  and  as  long  as  he  lived  in  his 
dream,  he  was  stoned  out  of  every  city  he  entered, 
and  was  regarded  as  a  madman.  Then  he  came 
down  to  practical  details,  organized  an  order,  bent 
the  whole  force  of  his  character  to  the  task,  and 
before  he  died  had  conquered  the  world.  My  friend, 
you  have  to  organize.  Keep  your  dream — Loyola 
kept  it;  you  are  worth  nothing  without  it.  But  make 
haste  to  give  it  practical  form,  for  the  world  will 
only  listen  to  the  dreamer  when  he  speaks  with  au- 
thority and  condescends  to  details." 

"I  think  I  see  some  of  these  details  clearly,"  said 
Gaunt. 

"Well,  describe  them." 

"They  are  but  suggestions  as  yet :  they  won't  bear 
much  handling.  The  idea  of  an  order  of  some 
kind;  yes,  that  is  imperative.  We  must  create  a 
bond,  a  sense  of  unity,  of  fellowship.  That  is  where 
the  Church  is  strong,  and  we  cannot  better  her  expe- 
rience." 

"A  fellowship — that's  your  better  word,  isn't  it? 
But  of  whom,  and  for  what?" 

"A  fellowship  of  all  who  love  in  the  service  of  all 
who  suffer." 

"Capital,"  said  Butler.  "Make  that  your  motto. 
Remember  I'm  an  editor,  and  your  words  will  be 
taken  as  evidence  against  you." 

"And  I  think  we  must  have  something  to  dis- 
tinguish us,  some  outward  badge  or  sign." 

"Not  the  friar's  garb,  I  hope,"  laughed  Palmer. 


196     A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

"No,  it  must  not  be  anything  that  separates  men 
from  their  fellows.  It  must  be  something  that  men 
can  wear  at  their  work,  women  in  the  house,  youths 
at  college.  Something  so  small  that  it  cannot  be 
thought  ostentatious:  yet  so  significant  that  it  tells 
its  story." 

"Yes,  that  is  also  good.  Men  love  badges,  espe- 
cially Americans,"  said  Butler.  "Besides,  I've  al- 
ways thought  it  a  great  advantage  to  get  a  man  into 
such  a  situation  that  he  is  bound  to  confess  his  re- 
ligion. When  a  man  is  very  anxious  to  conceal  his 
religion  I  always  conclude  that  he  has  none  to 
conceal." 

"I  think  that  is  as  far  as  my  thoughts  have  gone," 
said  Gaunt,  simply. 

"Well,  it's  as  far  as  I  want  you  to  go  at  present," 
said  Butler.  "You've  given  me  material  enough 
to  go  on  with  for  a  day  or  two,  and  when  I'm 
through,  I'll  come  for  more." 

"But  you're  not  going  to  publish  all  I've  said," 
said  Gaunt,  in  some  alarm. 

"Well,  not  all;  just  enough  for  present  purposes. 
Do  you  know,  sir,  that  there's  a  whole  month  to  be 
bridged  over  before  your  appearance  in  Madison 
Square  Garden?  A  month  is  a  long  time  in  the 
memory  of  New  York — time  enough  for  the  great- 
est men  to  be  forgotten.  Now  I  don't  propose  that 
you  shall  be  forgotten.  Remember  I  don't  claim  to 
be  a  religious  man,  and  please  don't  count  on  me 
to  wear  your  badge  when  you  invent  it.  I  am  merely 


AN    INTERVIEW  19; 

an  editor  whose  work  it  is  to  interpret  the  ideas  of 
the  world,  and  to  get  before  the  other  fellow  in  the 
business  if  I  can.  I  believe  in  your  ideas.  I'll  even 
go  so  far  as  to  say  that  if  ever  I  formulate  a  religion 
for  myself  again,  it  will  be  on  your  model.  But 
that's  neither  here  nor  there.  I  am  going  to  take 
up  your  cause  because  I  believe  that  the  mind  and 
conscience  of  the  world  are  ripe  for  it.  I  am  only 
anxious  on  one  point — and  you  know  what  that  is. 
Get  your  whole  plan  into  working  order  as  fast  as 
ever  you  can,  so  that  when  not  a  couple  of  hundred 
people  through  telegrams  and  letters,  but  twenty 
thousand  people  with  the  living  voice  ask  you  in 
Madison  Square  Garden :  'What  would'st  thou  have 
us  to  do  ?'  you  may  know  how  to  answer  them  with 
the  categorical  imperative." 

The  fagged,  lined  face  had  grown  very  serious 
during  this  speech;  it  now  broke  into  a  pleasant 
smile. 

"I'm  afraid  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  preaching  to 
you.  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  An  editor  is  always 
preaching,  and  besides,  it  runs  in  my  blood.  My 
father  was  a  minister." 

Butler  made  ready  to  leave  the  room  and  was 
already  at  the  door,  when  something  in  the  denuded 
aspect  of  the  room  struck  him.  There  were  no 
pictures  on  the  walls,  no  rug  upon  the  polished  floor, 
and  the  bookcases  showed  large  gaps. 

He  turned  back,  and  then  said,  with  some  hesita- 
tion :  "I  would  like  to  put  one  more  question  if  you 


198      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

will  let  me?  This  is  not  for  publication.  How  do 
you  propose  to  raise  the  sinews  of  war  for  this 
campaign  ?" 

"Palmer  will  tell  you;  he  knows  all  about  it,"  said 
Gaunt. 

"We  have  raised  between  sixty  and  seventy  thou- 
sand dollars.  That  will  serve  us  for  a  start/'  said 
Palmer. 

"We?    Who?" 

"Gaunt  and  I,"  said  Palmer,  with  quiet  dignity. 

Butler  understood.  Palmer  had  taken  little  part 
in  the  conversation,  and  naturally  Butler's  mind  had 
been  wholly  taken  up  with  Gaunt.  He  now  looked 
more  searchingly  at  Palmer,  and  at  once  guessed  the 
secret  Palmer  would  have  wished  to  conceal.  So 
this  was  how  the  money  was  being  raised?  Palm- 
er's manner  showed  his  share  in  it ;  Gaunt's  de- 
nuded library  told  its  own  tale.  If  Butler  had  had 
any  misgivings  in  lending  his  powerful  support  to 
Gaunt  and  his  cause,  those  misgivings  had  vanished 
utterly.  For  he  saw  that  which  never  fails  to  move 
and  attract  even  the  most  worldly  man,  the  spectacle 
of  self-sacrifice.  In  a  sudden  flash  of  memory  he 
recollected  all  the  men  whom  he  had  supported  from 
time  to  time — politicians,  candidates  for  office,  the 
vendors  of  new  social  ideas,  men  of  letters, — all  of 
them  men  of  conspicuous  gifts,  but  how  rarely  had 
he  found  in  them  the  least  element  of  self-sacrifice ! 
He  had  found  much  hungry  vanity;  even  in  the  best 
of  them  he  had  discovered  that  their  apparent  ab- 


AN   INTERVIEW  199 

sorption  in  ideas  did  not  prevent  a  very  astute  rec- 
ognition of  the  commercial  value  to  themselves  of 
those  ideas.  But  here  were  men  who  seemed  to  be 
wholly  free  from  that  spirit  of  self-seeking  which  so 
constantly  poisoned  the  idealism  of  American  life. 
They  had  given  all;  they  asked  for  nothing.  He 
was  not,  as  he  had  said,  a  religious  man,  but  he  knew 
his  Bible  almost  by  heart.  And  he  found  himself 
breathing,  as  it  were,  the  pure  atmosphere  of  the 
Gospels  for  a  moment.  He  remembered  that  the 
distinctive  quality  of  Jesus  had  been  just  this :  that 
He  had  given  all  to  the  world  and  asked  nothing 
of  it,  and  because  He  had  given  all,  had  won  all. 

There  was  a  certain  wonder  in  his  gaze  as  he 
looked  upon  the  two  men,  sitting  in  the  denuded 
room.  He  had  seen  many  strange  sights  in  his 
long  experience  of  men,  but  he  had  never  yet  met 
men  like  Gaunt  and  Palmer.  He  could  hardly  have 
supposed  it  possible  that  such  men  could  have  lived 
in  that  seething  whirlpool  of  frantic  self-interest 
which  was  called  New  York.  If  he  had  already  ad- 
mired Gaunt,  and  respected  his  ideas,  now  he  did 
far  more:  he  was  willing  to  recognize  his  right  of 
spiritual  leadership. 

"I  suppose  you  intend  leaving  this  house?"  he 
said. 

"We  leave  to-morrow.  I  ought  to  have  told 
you,"  said  Gaunt. 

"Where  do  you  propose  living?" 

"In  Washington  Square.    At  first  I  wanted  to  live 


200     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

in  the  slums,  in  close  contact  with  the  poor,  but  I 
have  been  overruled,  as  I  now  think  wisely.  I  shall 
need  a  central  house,  for  it  must  be  accessible  to  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  people.  And  I  shall  need 
a  large  house,  for  it  must  be  a  sort  of  Hospice  for  all 
forms  of  distress.  Palmer  is  joining  me  in  the  ven- 
ture. Do  you  approve  ?" 

"Heartily,"  said  Butler.  "You  couldn't  do  a 
wiser  thing,  and  it  modifies  my  hasty  suspicion  of 
your  organizing  ability." 

Gaunt  laughed  cheerfully. 

"Oh,  it  was  not  my  idea,  I  assure  you.  It  was 
my  wife's.  You  see  I  have  good  advisers,  and  I 
should  like  to  add  you  to  the  number." 

"1  rather  think  I've  already  added  myself,"  re- 
turned Butler. 

Butler  shook  hands  heartily  with  the  two  men. 
He  went  away  with  more  of  elation  in  his  thoughts 
than  he  had  known  for  many  years;  for  he  saw  now 
that  he  had  not  only  judged  rightly  in  regard  to 
the  fundamental  ideas  of  the  new  movement,  but 
that  he  was  not  mistaken  in  its  leader. 

He  no  longer  said,  "Gaunt  has  great  ideas."  He 
began  now  to  say,  "Gaunt  is  a  great  man." 


XIV 
THE  HOUSE   OF  JOY 

THE  plan  of  living  in  Washington  Square 
was,  as  Gaunt  had  said,  due  to  the  prac- 
tical intelligence  of  his  wife. 
For  her  own  part,  she  was  as  willing  as  her  hus- 
band to  live  in  the  barest  rooms  in  the  poorest  quarter 
of  the  city.  The  less  they  spent  the  more  would  they 
have  to  give,  was  her  prudent  principle.  But  as  the 
new  movement  outlined  itself  before  her  with  in- 
creasing distinctness,  she  perceived  that  it  probably 
would  embrace  all  classes.  Of  course  the  move- 
ment must  go  to  the  poor  first.  She  heartily  believed 
in  the  principle  that  all  great  religious  movements 
began  with  the  poor.  But  they  do  not  stay  there. 
Besides,  the  very  conception  of  a  League  of  Service 
implied  bringing  the  rich  into  contact  with  the  poor. 
It  meant  the  mobilisation  of  wealth  in  the  service 
of  poverty,  of  culture  in  the  service  of  ignorance. 
Therefore  the  location  of  the  movement  must  be 
central,  and  for  that  reason  she  insisted  on  Madison 
Square  Garden.  For  the  same  reason  she  now 
thought  of  Washington  Square  for  their  own  home. 
It  was  the  most  central  location  in  New  York,  and 
it  was  close  enough  to  the  poor  to  retain  the  idea 

201 


202      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

that  the  first  object  of  the  movement  was  for  their 
benefit. 

Here  Palmer  came  to  her  aid  in  an  unexpected 
fashion.  He  and  his  sister  had  long  lived  in  Wash- 
ington Square,  attracted  by  the  old-fashioned  spa- 
ciousness of  its  houses,  from  which  fashion  had  long 
since  departed.  The  one  luxury  they  allowed  them- 
selves was  a  house  with  large  rooms;  in  every  other 
respect  their  life  was  as  simple  as  life  in  a  log- 
cabin.  They  had  never  furnished  the  upper  part 
of  the  house,  and  had  resisted  many  tempting  offers 
to  let  it  for  office  purposes.  It  now  occurred  to 
them  that  the  house  might  be  easily  adapted  for 
the  purposes  of  the  League. 

They  both  hailed  with  delight  the  idea  of  Gaunt's 
coming  to  live  with  them.  From  that  idea  there  was 
evolved  the  larger  idea  of  something  in  the  nature  of 
community  life.  Esther  Palmer  was  one  of  those 
gentle  and  reserved  women  who  endure  loneliness  of 
life  without  complaint,  but  who  are  all  the  time  look- 
ing for  some  object  which  can  give  a  larger  interest 
to  their  thoughts.  She  had  long  ago  given  up  all 
visions  of  marriage;  she  lived  for  her  brother.  But 
there  were  many  hours  in  each  day  when  he  was 
absent,  and  she  felt  the  lack  of  some  positive  exact- 
ing duty.  She  read  much,  painted  a  little,  studied 
music  with  some  success,  but  none  of  these  employ- 
ments really  filled  the  void  in  her  life.  One  winter 
she  took  a  course  of  classes  in  biology,  less  from  any 
real  aptitude  for  science  than  from  the  desire  to  fill 


THE   HOUSE    OF   JOY  203 

her  time.  She  attended  to  her  brother's  corre- 
spondence, sometimes  wrote  at  his  dictation  an  essay 
for  the  heavier  magazines,  and  at  all  times  followed 
his  legal  studies  with  much  more  appreciation  than 
women  are  commonly  able  to  display  for  severe  and 
technical  themes.  She  had  come  almost  to  the  verge 
of  middle  life  without  losing  her  girlish  grace  and 
freshness.  Her  face  was  a  perfect  oval,  with  a 
Madonna-like  sweetness  and  composure,  belied  a 
little,  however,  by  the  wistful  expression  of  the  eyes. 
She  was  in  some  danger  of  becoming  a  blue-stock- 
ing; under  proper  guidance  she  might  have  become 
an  authoress.  But  the  years  passed,  and  her  devo- 
tion to  her  brother  gradually  swallowed  up  all  other 
interests;  and  yet,  in  her  heart,  she  still  yearned 
for  some  broader  avenue  of  activity,  some  interest 
that  would  lift  her  out  of  the  happy  monotony  of 
her  life. 

The  idea  of  the  League  of  Service  at  once  ap- 
pealed to  her,  and  as  Palmer  developed  his  plans,  she 
discerned  the  value  of  the  idea  of  community  life. 

Why  not  make  their  house  not  only  Gaunt' s  home, 
but  the  expression  of  a  new  ideal  of  living?  Fellow- 
ship should  surely  have  its  expression  not  only  in 
public  ways,  but  in  the  method  of  their  own  life. 
Gaunt  himself  gave  the  last  formulating  touch  to 
the  idea  when  he  spoke  of  a  Hospice. 

She  at  once  plunged  into  the  scheme  with  de- 
lighted alacrity.  The  old  house  was  transformed. 
The  large  dining-room  was  made  a  refectory,  and 


204     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

they  resolved  to  keep  open  table.  Most  of  the 
familiar  furniture  was  sold,  and  replaced  by  furniture 
of  the  simplest  type.  A  long,  plain,  oak  table  occu- 
pied the  centre  of  the  room.  Rugs  and  carpets  were 
replaced  by  a  bare,  stained  floor.  The  walls  were 
painted  white,  after  the  fashion  of  the  old  conven- 
tual refectories.  At  the  end  of  the  room,  facing  the 
tall  windows,  was  the  large  engraving  of  Velas- 
quez's Christ  on  the  Cross  which  had  formerly  hung 
in  Gaunt's  library;  this  was  the  one  touch  of  art 
which  they  permitted.  The  upstair  rooms  were 
treated  with  the  same  simplicity.  Some  were  meant 
to  be  occupied  by  any  workers  or  assistants  who 
might  give  themselves  to  the  cause.  Others  were 
reserved  for  cases  of  distress,  for  the  broken  man 
who  had  no  place  to  lay  his  head,  the  penitent 
daughter  of  shame  who  needed  immediate  rescue,  or 
the  deserted  child.  For,  above  all,  the  house  was 
to  be  a  Hospice.  It  must  keep  an  open  door  to  all 
the  world.  It  must  typify  in  its  own  way  the  ideal 
of  fellowship. 

A  Hospice — the  very  word  kindled  Palmer's  en- 
thusiasm. 

"It's  something  that  has  ceased  to  exist,  even  in 
Catholic  communities,  in  any  vital  form,"  he  said. 
"There  was  a  time  when  the  religious  houses  of 
Europe  were  the  houses  of  the  people,  dispensing 
generously  to  all  comers,  and  making  no  distinctions. 
Catholicism  has  lost  the  ideal.  Protestantism  never 
had  it.  We  will  revive  it." 


THE    HOUSE    OF   JOY  205 

"I  am  afraid  we  shan't  look  like  nuns  and  monks, 
however,"  laughed  Margaret.  "We  all  look  too 
happy." 

"Of  course,"  said  Palmer.  "And  that's  where  the 
novelty  comes  in.  Religion  has  never  yet  gone  into 
partnership  with  Joy.  It  has  been  afraid  to.  I  sup- 
pose it  is  because  Religion  has  always  seen  men  and 
women  plastered  over  with  dreadful  theological  la- 
bels; but  we  see  them  just  as  men  and  women." 

"Let  us  call  our  Hospice  the  House  of  Joy !"  ex- 
claimed Gaunt. 

"Splendid !"  exclaimed  Palmer.  "That's  the  note 
we  want  to  strike.  We've  heard  too  much  of  the 
pains  and  penalties  of  service;  let  us  emphasize  the 
truth  that  a  life  of  service  is  the  only  joyous  life." 

So,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  passers-by,  the 
door  of  the  house  bore  upon  its  white  surface  the 
inscription  in  golden  letters, 

THE  HOUSE  OF  JOY. 

And  certainly,  if  ever  house  knew  the  presence  of 
joy,  it  was  this  old  house  in  Washington  Square  in 
that  week  when  the  Gaunts  came  to  live  in  it.  They 
and  the  Palmers  passed  from  room  to  room  with  the 
interest  of  children,  examining  the  simple  fitments, 
expatiating  on  the  uses  to  which  they  would  put  them, 
the  four  happiest  people  in  New  York.  Those  rooms 
had  doubtless  known  many  merry  gatherings;  light 
feet  had  danced  upon  the  floors,  brides  had  come 


206      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

down  the  great  staircase  with  lips  athirst  for  love, 
song  and  revel  had  filled  the  rooms,  but  in  all  its 
history  no  such  joy  had  dwelt  there  as  in  these  days. 
Outside  New  York  span  like  a  roaring  wheel,  with 
its  willing  martyrs  bound  upon  it,  its  crowds  of  men 
and  women  who  sought  with  tortured  lips  some  living 
spring  in  the  whirl  of  sterile,  empty  days,  and  sought 
in  vain;  inside  there  was  a  great  peace,  and  the  water 
of  contentment,  and  the  bread  of  perfect  fellowship. 

The  life  within  did  not  belie  that  daring  legend 
on  the  door.  It  was  indeed  the  House  of  Joy. 

One  of  the  first  visitors  they  received  was  Gordon. 
Gaunt  had  recognized  him  in  the  congregation  in 
Mayfield  Avenue  Church  on  the  occasion  of  his  fare- 
well address,  and  among  the  letters  which  had  most 
cheered  him  was  one  from  Gordon.  The  old  man 
was  delighted  with  what  he  saw :  it  was  a  realisation 
of  his  own  early  dreams. 

"It  makes  me  young  again  to  see  all  this,"  he 
said.  "I  am  very  far  from  saying,  'Now,  Lord,  let- 
test  thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace/  I  am  much 
more  inclined  to  say,  'Now,  Lord,  let  me  live  and 
work/  I  am  tempted  to  join  you." 

"Why  not?"  said  Gaunt,  delightedly. 

"I  am  afraid  I  should  not  be  worth  my  salt.  Some 
one  once  proposed  that  all  ministers  should  be  taken 
out  and  shot  at  forty.  I'm  eighty  years  old." 

"Eighty  years  young,"  said  Gaunt.  "You  were 
young  enough  to  conceive  the  movement;  you  are 
young  enough  to  serve  it." 


THE    HOUSE    OF    JOY  207 

"If  I  thought  I  was,"  he  said,  wistfully. 

"Think  you  are,  and  you  will  be/'  retorted  Gaunt, 
with  a  gay  laugh.  "I  will  quote  you  your  own 
doctrine,  that  the  men  who  have  most  to  do  live 
longest.  Their  work  vitalizes  them,  you  know." 

"That's  the  worst  of  advising  other  people,"  said 
Gordon.  "They  invariably  return  the  advice  with 
interest.  However,  tell  me  what  I  can  do,  and  let 
me  consider  it." 

"You  are  already  our  prophet,"  said  Gaunt.  "All 
the  prophets  wrote  books,  I  believe,  or  are  reputed 
to  have  done  so.  Write  our  prophetic  books  for  us, 
express  our  ideas;  there  are  none  of  us  who  will  have 
the  time  when  once  the  work  begins." 

"Alas,  I  am  but  a  discredited  prophet,"  said  the 
old  man. 

"Rather  a  prophet  who  has  lived  long  enough  to 
outlive  discredit  and  get  his  message  published  at 
last,"  said  Gaunt. 

The  old  man  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  He  felt 
that  he  had  become  enamoured  of  loneliness,  that 
the  solitude  of  his  life  at  Riverside  had  become 
necessary  to  his  power  of  thinking;  but  now  that  a 
call  to  positive  service  had  come  to  him,  his  heart 
quickened  in  him  with  a  swift  revival  of  its  early 
fires. 

"Old  men  have  no  time  to  debate,"  he  said  at 
length.  "They  hear  too  clearly  the  voice  that  says, 
'What  thou  doest,  do  quickly/  I  will  come,  if  you 
will  have  me." 


208      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

And  so  one  more  was  added  to  the  community  of 
the  House  of  Joy.  One  of  the  smaller  rooms  in  the 
topmost  story  of  the  house  was  assigned  him,  to 
which  he  brought  the  more  indispensable  part  of 
his  library;  and  from  that  little  room  in  the  coming 
days  went  forth  many  of  those  pamphlets  which  did 
so  much  to  disseminate  the  ideas  of  the  League,  and 
to  stir  the  hearts  of  men  throughout  the  world. 

These  were  very  busy  days  in  the  House  of  Joy, 
in  which  there  was  scarce  leisure  to  eat;  yet  Gaunt 
was  conscious  of  an  enthusiasm  of  spirit  which  he 
had  never  known  before.  He  was  incapable  of 
fatigue,  and  he  knew  that  the  explanation  was  that 
his  work  was  now  absolutely  congenial.  He  had 
always  imagined  that  when  he  resigned  his  church, 
the  resignation  would  leave  behind  a  long  ground- 
swell  of  regret.  On  the  contrary,  he  now  experi- 
enced an  immense  sense  of  relief.  He  grew  younger 
every  day,  and  looked  younger.  He  often  recol- 
lected Gordon's  phrases  about  the  exhaustion  that 
attended  a  life  spent  in  trifles;  he  saw  now  that  very 
much  of  his  previous  life  in  the  Church  answered  to 
that  description.  What  had  continually  chafed  and 
irritated  him  was  the  atmosphere  of  pettiness  in  which 
he  had  been  compelled  to  work.  He  had  had  to  fight 
for  even  the  most  reasonable  and  insignificant  innova- 
tion against  the  timidity  of  men  like  Tasker  and  the 
dislike  of  men  like  Roberts.  How  many  sleepless 
nights  had  he  spent  over  things  of  no  real  moment — 
the  recollection  of  unkind  words,  the  small  diploma- 


THE    HOUSE    OF    JOY  209 

cies  that  held  together  men  of  opposite  tempera- 
ments, to  say  nothing  of  those  constant  irritations 
which  arose  in  guiding  the  course  of  various  organ- 
isations, each  one  jealous  of  its  neighbour.  He  was 
now  a  soldier  relieved  from  tedious  task-work,  who 
hears  the  trumpet  sound,  and  is  filled  with  the  gaiety 
of  battle.  He  breathed  freer,  walked  with  firmer 
step,  moved  erect,  conscious  in  every  thought  and 
act  of  a  great  liberation. 

In  the  meantime,  Butler  was  conducting  his  propa- 
ganda in  the  Press  with  consummate  ability  and 
tact.  He  published  a  series  of  articles  on  the  decline 
of  the  authority  of  the  Church  in  all  civilized  coun- 
tries, which  attracted  great  attention  among  all  intel- 
ligent men.  In  these  articles  he  offered  elaborate 
proof  of  the  general  revolt  against  the  Church.  Both 
France  and  Italy  had  been  compelled  to  disown  the 
Church  because  the  Church  no  longer  represented 
and  expressed  modern  needs.  In  both  countries  the 
men  who  shaped  opinion,  the  real  leaders  of  the  na- 
tion, were  agnostics  and  even  atheists.  In  London, 
which  might  be  regarded  as  the  centre  of  Protes- 
tantism, not  more  than  one  million  people  out  of  five 
millions  attended  public  worship.  England  had 
taken  the  alarm.  The  leaders  of  all  the  churches, 
united  by  a  common  danger,  had  published  a  mani- 
festo, protesting  against  the  increasing  desecration 
of  the  Sabbath.  In  America  the  case  was  much 
worse,  because  while  the  lessened  authority  of  the 
Church  was  more  evident,  yet  there  was  no  percep- 


2io      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

tion  of  danger.  He  published  a  census  of  church 
attendance  in  some  of  the  most  prominent  districts 
of  New  York.  The  census  revealed  the  fact  that 
not  more  than  one  per  cent,  of  the  leading  churches 
of  New  York  had  full  congregations.  Some  of  the 
churches  which  figured  most  prominently  came  off 
worst.  In  one  leading  Fifth  Avenue  church,  seated 
for  two  thousand  worshippers,  and  formerly  the 
scene  of  a  famous  ministry,  the  congregation  num- 
bered less  than  five  hundred.  Even  in  Brooklyn, 
"the  city  of  churches,"  as  they  were  pleased  to  call 
it,  more  than  a  million  persons  never  entered  a 
church. 

From  some  of  the  New  England  cities,  but  espe- 
cially from  the  Middle  West,  he  obtained  reports, 
carefully  compiled  by  special  commissioners,  which 
proved  much  more  disastrous.  One  leading  denom- 
ination in  Chicago,  with  many  churches,  occupying 
fine  sites,  could  report  not  one  as  even  moderately 
prosperous.  In  one  the  galleries  had  been  closed 
for  several  years;  they  were  no  longer  needed.  An- 
other had  been  without  a  minister  so  long  that  the 
congregation  had  wholly  deserted  it.  In  others, 
whose  size  witnessed  to  the  success  of  earlier  days, 
the  present  congregation  was  a  discouraged  handful. 
And  yet  on  any  given  Sunday  night  the  places  of 
entertainment  flared  with  light;  the  theatres  were 
crowded;  concerts  were  thronged;  and  Pleasure  and 
Frivolity  reaped  their  fullest  harvests. 

He  drew  a  striking,  and  even  pathetic,  picture  of 


THE    HOUSE    OF    JOY  211 

the  condition  of  the  minister  in  these  churches.  He 
deserved  sympathy,  for  he  was  a  brave  man,  con- 
ducting a  forlorn  hope  that  led  to  nothing.  There 
were  thousands  of  ministers  who  knew  they  were 
beaten  men,  but  were  incapable  of  understanding 
why.  Some  of  them,  in  despair,  adopted  sensational 
methods,  and  indulged  in  what  might  be  called 
"illicit  preaching"  to  attract  the  crowds,  and  those 
were  the  only  men  who  succeeded.  The  man  of 
finer  taste,  of  deeper  spirituality,  of  real  scholar- 
ship was  not  listened  to.  He  bore  his  defeat  in 
silence,  and  often  died  of  it. 

It  was  a  notorious  fact  that  the  best  men  no  longer 
entered  the  ministry.  The  bishops  of  the  Anglican 
Church  in  England  had  publicly  deplored  the  fact, 
and  all  who  had  anything  to  do  with  universities  and 
theological  seminaries  in  America  were  perfectly 
aware  of  it.  Why  was  this?  Cynics  would  no 
doubt  reply  because  the  rising  youth  of  America  had 
discovered  that  much  more  money  was  to  be  made  in 
any  other  profession  than  the  ministry.  But  that  was 
a  libel  on  youth.  The  real  reason  was  that  the  youth 
of  brilliant  parts  had  discovered  that  the  ministry 
was  an  intolerable  bondage.  Such  men  would  gladly 
give  themselves  to  the  ministry  if  it  afforded  them 
an  opportunity  commensurate  with  their  powers, 
and  would  be  content  with  its  modest  rewards ;  but 
they  declined  to  become  the  slaves  of  an  institution 
that  robbed  them  of  the  right  to  think  freely,  bound 
them  by  antiquated  precedents,  and  ground  out  their 


212      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

lives  in  piffling  trivialities.  The  result  was  that  the 
men  of  real  energy  of  intellect  and  brilliant  powers 
of  initiation  refused  the  ministry,  and  more  and 
more  the  greatest  function  in  the  world,  that  of  the 
prophet,  was  given  over  to  inferior  men,  who  per- 
formed their  tasks  mechanically,  and  were  wholly 
unable  to  express  the  ideas  which  agitated  thought- 
ful people. 

Yet  America  could  not  live  without  a  living 
church ;  the  fortunes  of  the  Republic  were  bound  up 
with  the  fortunes  of  the  Church.  All  history  proved 
that  the  decline  of  religion  in  a  nation  meant  the 
decline  of  the  nation.  Let  the  present  processes  go 
on  unchecked  for  another  quarter  of  a  century,  and 
the  end  was  clear.  The  dawn  of  the  year  1930 
would  reveal  a  Pagan  America:  an  America  from 
which  the  last  vestige  of  Christianity  had  vanished, 
leaving  pure  Paganism  as  the  one  governing  princi- 
ple in  the  national  life. 

Day  after  day  these  striking  articles  appeared  in 
Butler's  paper.  Had  they  appeared  in  the  religious 
press  they  would  probably  have  attracted  little  atten- 
tion; but  appearing  as  they  did  in  the  most  authori- 
tative daily  journal  in  America,  written  as  they  were 
with  both  sympathy  and  knowledge,  and  expressed 
in  language  at  once  caustic  and  temperate,  they 
attracted  the  attention  of  the  whole  nation.  They 
were  reprinted  in  a  thousand  journals.  They  were 
discussed  in  business  offices  and  clubs.  The  expres- 
sion "Pagan  America"  fixed  itself  upon  the  popular 


THE   HOUSE    OF   JOY  213 

memory.  The  evening  papers  took  it  up,  and  pub- 
lished sensational  episodes  and  statistics  of  New  York 
misery  and  crime.  Sickening  details  were  given  of 
squalor  and  vice,  and  the  question  was  asked  occasion- 
ally in  real  earnestness,  but  often  in  derision,  "What 
is  the  Church  doing?"  The  term  Pagan  America 
found  its  way  into  the  comic  papers,  which  presented 
their  readers  with  barbaric  pictures  of  what  might 
be  supposed  to  happen  in  1930  when  America  had 
reverted  to  type.  Music-hall  singers  used  it  as  a 
catch-word  in  their  songs,  associating  it  with  the 
most  banal  and  vulgar  ideas,  and  often  with  thinly- 
disguised  profanity  and  indecency.  The  gilded 
youth  of  New  York  asked  one  another  over  their 
cocktails,  "Are  you  a  Pagan?"  and  found  a  new 
form  of  wit  in  christening  a  new  and  complicated 
cocktail  a  "liquid  Paganism."  But  beneath  all  this 
characteristic  levity  there  sounded  a  note  of  real 
alarm.  It  was  as  though  a  sudden  gulf  had  opened, 
toward  which  the  entire  nation  was  seen  rushing 
at  a  frantic  gallop.  Sober  and  serious  men  of  all 
shades  of  thought,  who  had  already  been  alarmed  by 
the  constant  revelations  of  corruption  and  fraud  in 
the  great  insurance  societies,  in  the  municipal  and 
political  world,  began  to  realize  for  the  first  time 
that  all  this  gangrene  of  chicanery,  which  was  eat- 
ing out  the  honour  and  life  of  the  nation,  had  its 
origin  in  the  decay  of  the  religious  sentiment.  These 
things  could  not  have  existed  had  not  the  restraint 
of  religion  been  relaxed.  Religion,  therefore,  be- 


214     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

came  the  urgent  question  of  the  hour.  And  the 
form  which  that  question  was  bound  to  take  was 
precisely  the  form  Butler  had  foreseen:  was  it  yet 
possible  to  free  the  genuine  spirit  of  religion  from 
its  decaying  forms,  to  rescue  it  from  enfeebling  the- 
ologies and  traditions,  to  make  it  once  more  a  gen- 
uine impulse  and  inspiration  in  the  lives  of  men  ? 

One  day  Dr.  Jordan  sought  an  interview  with 
Butler.  He  brought  with  him  a  resolution  of  protest 
against  Butler's  articles,  requesting  that  it  might  be 
published  in  The  Daily  Light. 

"Certainly  I  will  publish  it,  if  you  wish,"  said 
Butler,  "but  I  think  you  are  ill-advised  to  re- 
quest it." 

"You  will  find  that  the  protest  is  signed  by  twenty 
ministers,  some  of  them  among  the  most  prominent 
in  New  York,"  said  Jordan,  stiffly.  "Probably  they 
know  their  own  business  better  than  you  do." 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  venture  to  doubt,"  re- 
plied Butler.  "You  know  it  is  the  looker-on  who 
sees  most  of  the  game." 

He  gravely  examined  the  names  of  the  signatories 
to  the  protest. 

"I  see  your  own  name  here,  Dr.  Jordan.  Suppose 
you  give  me  your  own  views,  for  I  imagine  that  the 
protest  is  your  work." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Jordan,  pompously.  "The  pro- 
test emanated  from  me,  and  I  am  not  ashamed  of 
it.  In  my  opinion  your  articles  are  calculated  to 
damage  the  prestige  of  the  Church." 


THE   HOUSE    OF   JOY  215 

"Prestige  is  a  small  matter,  Dr.  Jordan.  It  is 
merely  the  mirage  of  false  pride.  The  only  vital 
question  is  whether  or  not  these  articles  are  true." 

"They  may  be  true  in  point  of  fact,"  said  Jordan, 
"but  they,  nevertheless,  create  a  false  impression." 

"You  must  forgive  me,  Dr.  Jordan,  but  I  am  only 
a  plain  man,  and  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  see  how 
a  thing  that  is  true  can  produce  an  impression  that 
is  false." 

Butler's  tone  of  banter  offended  Jordan's  dignity 
and  made  him  angry. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  to  be  put  off  with  words,"  he  ex- 
claimed. "I  know  what  you  mean  to  do.  You 
mean  to  support  that  pestilent  fellow  Gaunt.  I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  he  wrote  the  articles  himself. 
It  would  be  just  what  might  be  expected.  The  man 
who  can't  manage  to  stay  in  the  Church  no  sooner 
leaves  it  than  he  usually  proceeds  to  foul  his  own 
nest." 

Butler  turned  to  his  desk,  and  began  the  correc- 
tion of  some  proofs  that  demanded  his  attention. 
Without  looking  up,  he  said  in  quiet  tones :  "I  allow 
no  one  to  shout  in  my  office,  Dr.  Jordan.  You  have 
said  things  which  I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  for- 
get, and  I  prefer  to  forget  that  I  have  heard  them." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  forget  them,"  blustered 
jjordan.  "I  warn  you  that  the  entire  Church  of  New 
York  will  prove  hostile  to  you  and  your  precious 
protege.  Therefore  I  repeat " 

"Pardon  me,  but  you  will  repeat  nothing  of  what 


216      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

you  have  already  said.  Repeat  it  outside  if  you  like, 
and  get  those  to  agree  with  you  who  will.  I  am 
busy.  Good-morning." 

Jordan  had  no  option  but  to  go. 

"Then  you  will  not  print  my  protest?"  he  said. 
"I  ought  to  have  known  that  editors  only  publish 
what  agrees  with  their  own  views." 

"On  the  contrary,  I  will  print  it,  with  pleasure — 
even  with  malicious  pleasure,  if  you  like.  But  you 
will  find  that  it  will  do  you  little  good." 

Jordan  left  in  a  white  heat  of  rage. 

"There  goes  a  fellow,"  thought  Butler,  "who 
ought  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  Torquemada. 
He'd  burn  his  best  friend  for  a  difference  of  opinion. 
I'm  perfectly  sure  he'd  crucify  me  with  pleasure." 

Butler  related  the  incident  to  Gaunt  the  same  even- 
ing, and  Gaunt's  comment  was  characteristic. 

"Don't  be  hard  on  Jordan,"  he  said.  "He's  really 
a  good  man,  who  works  with  vast  industry  for  his 
church.  But  he  suffers  from  constriction  of  vision, 
which  isn't  altogether  his  fault.  There's  a  curious 
fact  in  optics  which  I  came  across  the  other  day, 
which  explains  Jordan.  It  is  stated  that  people  who 
live  on  the  prairies  or  on  the  African  veldt  have  an 
extraordinary  range  of  vision,  because  the  eye  has  to 
accommodate  itself  daily  to  vast  spaces.  People 
who  live  among  walls,  on  the  contrary,  have  very 
short  vision,  and  the  prairie  dweller,  if  he  comes 
to  live  in  a  city,  soon  finds  his  eye  accommodating 
itself  to  the  narrower  range.  Well,  that's  Jordan's 


THE    HOUSE    OF    JOY  217 

case.  He's  always  lived  among  walls,  church  walls, 
I  suppose,  and  knows  nothing  about  open  spaces. " 

"You  are  more  charitable  in  your  view  of  him 
than  I  am,"  said  Butler. 

"Not  more  charitable;  only  a  little  more  exact," 
said  Gaunt.  "You  see,  I  know  him  better,  and  you 
know  the  proverb,  To  know  all  is  to  forgive  all.' ' 

"I  suppose  you  would  say  that  our  business  is  to 
get  Jordan  and  his  kind  out  into  the  open  spaces  ?" 

"Oh,  he'll  have  to  come  out  when  the  walls  fall 
down,"  said  Gaunt,  cheerfully.  "They're  already 
beginning  to  tremble,  thanks  to  your  seismic  ef- 
forts." 

And  this  was  the  truth  of  the  matter,  as  Butler 
thankfully  admitted.  There  lay  upon  his  desk  hun- 
dreds of  letters  from  ministers  in  all  parts  of  the 
country,  many  of  them  infinitely  pathetic  in  their 
confession  of  patient  failure,  and  their  eager  hope 
that  at  length  the  dawn  of  deliverance  was  near. 
Many  similar  letters  had  reached  Gaunt,  and  they 
gave  both  Butler  and  himself  a  new  respect  for 
the  American  ministry.  Contrary  to  all  previous 
expectations,  they  began  to  perceive  that  the  strength 
and  possibility  of  triumph  for  the  movement  lay  in 
the  ministers  themselves.  No  doubt  men  of  Jordan's 
type  would  be  obstinately  hostile;  but  there  were 
others,  especially  the  younger  men,  whose  temper 
was  wholly  different.  These  men  were  not  blind 
to  their  conditions.  If  they  were  involved  in  the 
failure  of  the  Church,  it  was  not  so  much  their 


2i8      A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

fault  as  their  misfortune.  They  had  been  set  to 
perform  an  impossible  task  with  machinery  that  was 
wholly  out  of  date.  Gaunt  knew  the  type  well: 
men  of  sturdy  manhood  who  had  fought  their  way 
through  colleges  and  seminaries  by  indomitable  sac- 
rifice; who  had  stoked  furnaces  or  worked  on  rail- 
ways to  earn  money  for  their  training;  who  were  of 
an  incorruptible  courage,  and  because  they  were 
courageous,  fought  on  silently  and  made  no  com- 
plaint. But  they  knew  quite  well  why  they  had 
failed.  They  knew  that  they  had  never  had  the 
freedom  requisite  for  success,  and  these  men  would 
rally  to  the  movement. 

So  day  by  day  the  press  campaign  went  on,  and 
daily  the  public  interest  deepened.  During  this 
month  of  February  Gaunt  had  become  the  most 
talked-of  man  in  America. 


XV 
THE  VISION 

THE  month  was  near  its  close;  the  first  Sun- 
day in  March  was  now  imminent.    With 
the  approach  of  this  day  which  meant  so 
much,  a  sense  of  great  solemnity  and  awe  fell  on 
Gaunt's  mind. 

Little  by  little,  in  the  incessant  conferences  which 
he  had  held  with  his  friends,  he  had  drawn  the  lines 
of  his  scheme  firm  and  true.  There  had  been  mo- 
ments of  hesitation,  when  he  had  felt  himself  en- 
tirely unequal  to  the  magnitude  of  the  task  that 
awaited  him;  but  his  dominant  mood  was  peace. 
He  felt  himself  in  the  hands  of  a  destiny  stronger 
than  himself;  he  was  swept  out  upon  an  unknown 
sea,  yet  the  course  which  the  little  boat  of  his  life 
had  taken  was  so  definite  that  he  could  not  doubt' 
the  presence  of  some  invisible  steersman.  For  the 
obverse  side  of  his  liberation  was  surrender;  he  had 
gained  liberty  only  to  resign  it  into  the  hands  of 
One  wiser  and  stronger  than  himself. 

It  seemed  to  his  friends,  and  at  times  to  himself, 
that  his  whole  nature  had  undergone  some  myste- 
rious process  of  reconstruction.  Intellectually  he 
was  the  same  man,  but  morally  he  was  a  different 

219 


220      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

man.  His  whole  character  was  sweetened  and  soft- 
ened. And  yet  there  was  no  element  of  conscious 
effort  to  which  he  could  attribute  the  change.  That 
was  the  strange  thing  over  which  his  mind  often 
meditated  with  sincere  wonder.  He  had  not  worked, 
but  had  been  worked  upon.  The  force  which  had  re- 
shaped him  was  an  external  force;  it  did  not  arise 
in  himself,  it  owed  nothing  to  his  own  volition.  Was 
it  new  birth — that  inexplicable  miracle  which  Christ 
Himself  could  not  explain:  the  blowing  of  a  wind 
whose  sound  is  heard  but  whose  source  is  secret; 
which  passes  through  the  sterile  places  of  the  heart, 
and  leaves  behind  it  fertility  and  life  ?  It  seemed  so 
to  those  who  knew  him  best.  There  began  to  be 
apparent  in  him  a  certain  mystic  quality.  It  man- 
ifested itself  in  a  curious  combination  of  charm  and 
authority,  so  that  without  the  least  demand  on  his 
part  all  those  with  whom  he  came  in  contact  accepted 
his  leadership.  He  conquered  men  because  he  had 
conquered  himself;  or,  perhaps,  it  would  be  truer  to 
say,  because  he  had  been  conquered. 

Perhaps  nothing  in  his  after  life  afforded  so  severe 
a  test  of  his  character  as  these  four  weeks  of  wait- 
ing for  the  lifting  curtain.  He  was  modest  under 
the  immense  notoriety  that  had  suddenly  come  to 
him  through  Butler's  press  campaign;  but  it  says 
even  more  for  the  change  that  had  been  wrought  in 
him  that  he  was  patient  under  the  daily  provocations 
which  he  endured  from  those  whose  hostility  to  him 
became  the  more  open  as  his  notoriety  increased. 


THE    VISION  221 

"They  don't  understand,  poor  fellows/*  was  his  only 
comment  on  many  an  insulting  letter. 

Cranks  of  every  description  waited  on  him;  he 
had  never  guessed  before  how  many  mad  people 
there  were  in  the  world. 

One  propagandist  lady  desired  to  know  his  views 
on  marriage,  and  when  she  found  that  on  this  point 
at  least  he  was  severely  orthodox,  proceeded  to  de- 
liver for  his  benefit  a  ranting  half-hour  lecture  on 
the  servitude  of  women.  Marriage,  she  affirmed, 
was  "an  unholy  institootion,"  designed  in  the  days 
of  woman's  innocency  for  her  perpetual  enslavement, 
and  she  called  on  Gaunt,  in  excited  tones,  to  set 
women  free.  It  did  not  appear  precisely  from  what 
woman  was  to  be  freed,  or  what  she  was  to  do 
with  her  freedom  when  she  got  it;  the  only  apparent 
thing  was  that  the  poor  creature  had  found  her  own 
life  bitter,  and  Gaunt  did  his  best  to  soothe  her.  But 
she  proved  too  obstinately  pugnacious  for  such 
kindly  arts,  and  flung  out  of  the  House  of  Joy, 
with  the  shrill  assurance  that  every  woman  in 
America  would  henceforth  be  Gaunt's  relentless 
enemy. 

A  crank  of  a  totally  different  order  was  a  mild- 
mannered  gentleman  with  tired  eyes  and  a  subdued 
pulpit  manner  of  address,  who  was  a  long  time  in 
coming  to  the  point.  This  gentleman  appeared  to  be 
the  author  of  a  railroad  scheme  in  the  distant  West 
which  was  to  be  conducted  on  purely  philanthropic 
lines,  no  shares  being  issued  to  any  one  who  was  not 


222     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

a  Christian  man  whose  character  and  money  were 
alike  without  taint.  Under  these  unusual  conditions 
of  railroad  construction  he  proposed  to  build  a  truly 
Christian  railroad,  and  he  thought  it  would  be  an 
admirable  thing  if  Gaunt  would  allow  a  prospectus 
of  this  most  original  scheme  to  be  distributed 
through  Madison  Square  Garden,  coupling  with  it  a 
request  that  Gaunt  would  be  good  enough  to  men- 
tion the  enterprise  in  his  sermon.  It  was  very  hard 
to  convince  this  amiable  gentleman  that  railroad 
enterprises,  whether  Christian  or  otherwise,  did  not 
furnish  a  fit  theme  for  religious  addresses. 

"I  know  that  most  people  would  think  so,"  he 
remarked,  in  gentle  deprecation.  "Indeed,  I  have 
already  interviewed  several  ministers  in  New  York 
on  the  subject  without  success.  But  I  thought  you 
were  a  different  sort  of  man,  sir." 

"Not  different  enough  for  that,  I  am  afraid," 
Gaunt  replied. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  this  mild-mannered  en- 
thusiast could  be  persuaded  to  go  away,  and  when 
he  went  it  was  with  the  sorrowful  conviction,  which 
he  earnestly  impressed  on  Gaunt,  that  the  greatest 
opportunity  which  he  had  ever  had  of  doing  good 
was  escaping  him. 

Then  Roberts  wrote  him  a  bitter  letter,  in  which 
he  accused  him  of  having  wrecked  Mayfield  Avenue 
Church  by  his  ambition  and  eccentricity;  and  Jordan 
waited  on  him  with  vehement  prophecies  of  im- 
pending financial  and  moral  bankruptcy. 


THE    VISION  223 

It  seemed  that  Jordan  had  really  come  to  get  mat- 
ter for  a  so-called  interview,  which  appeared  a  few 
days  later  in  a  "religious"  journal.  In  the  interview 
there  was  scarcely  a  sentence  which  Gaunt  had  really 
uttered:  it  consisted  entirely  of  a  series  of  bitter 
and  derisive  comments  upon  Gaunt  and  his  move- 
ment. He  was  described  as  a  man  whose  conversion 
to  spiritual  ideals  was  so  recent  that  most  reasona- 
ble persons  would  be  cautious  in  accepting  the  con- 
version as  genuine.  Every  one  knew  that  any  at- 
traction he  had  exerted  was  based  solely  upon  a 
reputation  which  he  had  been  able  to  build  up  for 
literary  scholarship,  and  it  was  probable  that  he 
knew  a  great  deal  more  about  Browning  than  he 
did  about  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ.  What  men 
wanted  was  the  old  Gospel,  pure  and  unadulterated, 
and  Gaunt  had  never  yet  given  any  evidence  of  loy- 
alty to  the  old,  old  gospel,  which  alone  was  able  to 
make  men  wise  unto  salvation.  He  had  notoriously 
failed  in  his  own  church,  and  it  was  not  until  that 
failure  was  evident  and  humiliating  that  he  had  sud- 
denly posed  as  a  religious  reformer.  Again,  all 
reasonable  men  would  be  extremely  slow  to  accept 
as  a  new  religious  leader  one  who  had  not  been  able 
to  retain  the  loyalty  of  his  own  congregation.  As 
for  the  House  of  Joy,  it  was  a  fantastic  name  for  a 
fantastic  and  mischievous  social  adventure.  It 
would  end,  as  all  other  schemes  for  community  life 
had  ended,  in  failure,  and  probably  in  disgrace.  It 
was  quite  evident  that  Gaunt's  mind  was  slightly  un- 


224      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

balanced,  and  that  the  present  notoriety  which  he 
had  attained  was  not  favourable  to  his  recovery.  He 
had  now  become  an  adventurer,  who  preyed  upon 
the  credulity  and  fanaticism  of  weak-minded  Chris- 
tian people. 

There  was  much  more  of  the  same  sort,  followed 
by  a  letter  signed  by  Roberts  and  said  to  have  been 
prepared  in  consultation  with  his  fellow-deacons,  in 
which  what  he  called  "The  True  Facts  of  Dr. 
Gaunt's  Case"  were  set  forth.  According  to  these 
facts  the  real  reason  why  Gaunt  had  resigned  the 
Mayfield  Avenue  Church  was  nothing  more  nor  less 
than  this,  that  his  ministry  had  been  a  failure.  It 
might  be  only  a  coincidence  that  the  late  pastor  of 
that  influential  church  had  become  a  reformer  only 
when  he  had  failed  as  a  preacher;  such  coincidences 
certainly  might  happen,  but  Dr.  Gaunt's  former  asso- 
ciates in  the  Mayfield  Avenue  Church  knew  him  too 
well  to  regard  them  as  accidental. 

Butler  smiled  grimly  when  Gaunt  showed  him 
this  article. 

"It  is  what  I  expected,"  he  marked.  "When  a 
man  walks  in  the  sunshine  the  snakes  come  out  to 
bite  his  heel;  success  makes  enemies." 

"Poor  fellows,  they  don't  understand!"  said 
Gaunt. 

"For  that  reason  it  would  be  folly  to  try  to  en- 
lighten them.  I  suppose  your  first  thought  was  to 
answer  this  venomous  stuff?" 

"I  did  think  of  it." 


THE    VISION  225 

"Well,  think  of  it  no  more,"  said  Butler.  "You 
will  get  plenty  more  of  this  kind  of  thing  before  you 
are  through.  It's  a  good  rule  with  such  antagonists 
as  these  never  to  argue,  never  to  contradict,  and  gen- 
erally to  forget.  Besides  nothing  makes  them  so 
conscious  of  their  own  inferiority  as  silence.  In 
matters  of  controversy,  when  a  man  is  obviously  very 
anxious  for  you  to  speak,  don't/' 

But  the  article,  with  its  calculated  malice,  never- 
theless, had  its  effect.  It  went  the  round  of  the  so- 
called  orthodox  religious  press,  and  the  champions 
of  orthodoxy  arose  in  their  wrath.  One  of  those 
champions,  an  old  theological  professor,  whose 
classes  Gaunt  had  had  the  misfortune  to  attend  for 
a  year,  came  to  see  him.  How  well  Gaunt  remem- 
bered those  classes !  The  professor  had  thought  his 
duty  accomplished  when  he  informed  his  students 
how  many  times  Abraham  was  mentioned  in  the 
Scriptures,  and  had  delivered  to  them  without  the 
least  explanation  the  cut-and-dried  dogmas  of  medi- 
aeval theologies ;  but  not  once  had  he  ever  made  them 
feel  the  real  message  of  the  Gospel,  or  enabled  them 
to  see  what  the  life  of  Jesus  meant. 

The  professor  came  to  see  him  in  no  friendly 
spirit,  as  was  soon  evident.  With  his  white  hair, 
narrow  brow,  and  spare  form,  he  presented  a  ven- 
erable figure,  but  it  was  soon  manifest  that  years 
had  done  nothing  to  soften  the  asperity  of  his  tem- 
per, or  to  enlarge  his  thoughts.  He  also  spoke  of 
the  old  Gospel  as  if  it  were  a  mystery  which  he 


226      A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

alone  understood,  and  accused  Gaunt  of  betray- 
ing it. 

"On  the  contrary/'  Gaunt  remonstrated,  "I  have 
gone  back  to  it — to  a  Gospel  much  older  than  the- 
ology, and  older  even  than  the  Church." 

But  it  was  useless  to  argue  with  the  old  man,  who 
was  convinced  that  he  lived  in  the  period  of  the 
world's  final  apostasy,  which  conviction  he  sup- 
ported by  strange  references  to  the  big  horn  and 
the  little  horn  in  the  Book  of  Revelations,  and  the 
beast  who  came  out  of  the  sea,  and  the  woman  in 
scarlet  raiment.  \ 

"Let  us  part  as  friends,"  said  Gaunt. 

But  the  old  man  drew  away  from  him  in  anger, 
exclaiming  that  he  would  take  the  hand  of  no  man 
who  was  a  traitor  to  the  truth;  and  so  Gaunt  once 
more  had  to  answer:  "Poor  fellow,  he  doesn't  un- 
derstand I" 

There  were  other  visitors,  too,  of  a  very  different 
type:  people  who  came  late  at  night  because  they 
had  only  the  scanty  leisure  of  the  workingman. 
Many  of  them  were  of  that  intelligent  and  thought- 
ful type  which  may  be  found  on  Sunday  nights  at 
the  Cooper  Institute — men  with  calloused  hands 
that  spoke  of  hard  work,  who  had  used  their  narrow 
opportunities  of  culture  in  mastering  the  principles 
of  social  and  political  economy.  They  were  all  of 
them  hostile  to  the  Church,  and  Gaunt  soon  dis- 
covered that  the  primary  attraction  he  had  for  them 
was  that  he  had  broken  with  the  Church.  But  if 


THE    VISION  227 

they  were  hostile  to  the  Church,  they  were  far  from 
hostile  to  religious  ideas.  They  regarded  Jesus  as 
the  greatest  of  thinkers  and  reformers,  who  was  cru- 
cified by  the  capitalist  classes,  who  distorted  the 
meaning  of  His  Gospel,  suppressed  its  real  teach- 
ings, and  finally  manufactured  out  of  it  a  weapon 
of  tyranny.  The  more  Gaunt  saw  of  these  men,  the 
more  his  heart  went  out  to  them,  and  he  found  in 
their  interest  in  him  the  brightest  possible  augury 
for  his  work.  They  were  socialists  in  theory,  and 
some  of  them  might  be  justly  called  anarchists;  but 
there  was  one  distinguishing  quality  which  he  found 
in  all  of  them,  a  real  passion  for  humanity,  a  vehe- 
ment desire  for  human  betterment,  a  true  sense  of 
the  part  which  collectivist  ideas  must  play  in  the 
future  reconstruction  of  society. 

"These  are  the  best  Christians  I  have  yet  met," 
he  said  to  Palmer. 

"Of  course,"  Palmer  answered.  "In  their  own 
way  these  men  are  feeling  after  the  same  social  ideas 
which  Jesus  formulated;  if  Jesus  came  to  New 
York,  as  He  once  came  to  Jerusalem,  in  the  raiment 
of  the  carpenter,  it  is  among  these  men  He  would 
probably  find  His  first  disciples/' 

But  of  all  his  visitors,  the  one  who  left  the  deepest 
impression  upon  him  was  a  burly,  ill-dressed  man 
from  a  great  manufacturing  city  in  New  England. 

It  was  on  the  Saturday  night  which  preceded  the 
opening  of  his  mission  in  Madison  Square  Garden, 
and  Gaunt,  who  had  hoped  to  keep  his  evening  free 


228      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

from  all  interruption,  met  his  visitor  with  some 
reluctance. 

The  man's  appearance  and  manner  were  not  pre- 
possessing, but  the  moment  he  spoke  Gaunt  was 
aware  that  he  was  no  common  man.  He  spoke  in 
short,  abrupt  sentences,  using  from  time  to  time  vivid 
and  picturesque  phrases.  It  seemed  he  was  a  self- 
constituted  street-preacher  in  the  city  where  he  lived, 
and  his  history  was  remarkable.  He  had  been  a 
drunkard,  a  gambler,  and  an  atheist,  until  he  was 
forty,  and  not  once  in  all  those  years  had  entered 
a  church.  One  day  he  was  working  in  the  house  of 
a  good  woman,  who  asked  him  about  his  soul.  He 
hotly  resented  the  question,  and  only  a  sense  of  re- 
spect for  the  character  of  his  questioner  prevented 
him  from  making  an  angry  and  insolent  reply.  He 
left  the  house,  but  the  question  remained  with  him. 
He  became  acutely  miserable.  The  Sunday  morn- 
ing came. 

"If  I  had  a  decent  pair  of  pants,  I  believe  I'd  go 
to  church,"  he  said. 

His  family  greeted  the  idea  with  laughter.  He 
repaired  his  clothes,  however,  as  he  best  could,  and 
went  to  church. 

"Sir,"  said  he  to  Gaunt,  "I  give  you  my  word,  I 
was  so  ignorant  I  did  not  understand  a  single  word 
of  that  service.  The  minister  seemed  to  be  using 
words  I  had  never  heard,  and  talking  about  things 
way  off  from  me.  I  grew  angrier  each  moment, 
and  sad,  too,  for  I  knew  I  badly  needed  some  kind 


THE   VISION  229 

of  help,  for  I  was  miserable.  Then  the  lady  who 
had  already  spoken  to  me,  saw  me  and  came  to  speak 
to  me.  I  went  home  with  her,  and  she  prayed 
with  me. 

"  'Do  you  feel  any  better  now  ?'  she  asked. 

"  'I  can't  say  that  I  do/  says  I. 

"She  seemed  disappointed,  but  I  was  worse  hurt 
than  she  was.  I  went  to  the  drink  again,  but  it  was 
no  use,  I  was  more  miserable  than  ever.  Then  I 
ordered  all  the  infidel  books  I  knew,  but  I  found 
they  didn't  interest  me.  All  the  while,  I  should  say, 
I  was  reading  the  Gospels  a  bit  at  a  time.  They 
seemed  all  a  jumble  to  me,  but  now  and  then  some- 
thing spoke  to  me  out  of  them — just  a  whisper,  as  if 
it  was  Jesus  Himself.  But  nothing  came  of  it;  it 
was  like  the  praying,  I  didn't  feel  any  better;  so  at 
last  I  resolved  to  commit  suicide.  I  went  out  on 
the  bridge  at  night,  I  stood  in  the  way  of  the  cars, 
in  real  earnest  over  this  suicide  business,  but  some- 
how I  couldn't  do  it.  At  last  I  got  to  a  point  where 
I  had  to  do  something  or  go  mad.  So  I  chose  a 
night  when  no  one  was  in  the  house,  went  into  my 
room,  and  put  my  loaded  pistol  on  the  table,  re- 
solved to  have  the  thing  out  with  God.  I  didn't 
know  how  to  pray.  I  didn't  know  the  right  sort  of 
words,  so  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  said  something 
like  this:  'O  Jesus,  I  don't  know  where  you  are, 
and  I  don't  know  whether  I've  got  a  soul,  but  if  you 
are  anywhere  round,  and  can  do  anything  for  my 
soul,  you've  got  to  do  it  quick.  Here's  the  pistol, 


230     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

and  here  am  I,  and  I  mean  business.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is  to  be  saved,  but  I  know  that's  about 
what  I  want,  and  I've  got  to  be  saved  in  five  min- 
utes, or  die.  So  now  you  know  my  case,  and  you 
know  what  you've  got  to  do,  if  you  can  do  it  any- 
way.' 

"Then  I  said  amen,  like  I'd  heard  the  preacher 
say,  and  I  waited." 

"Well,"  said  Gaunt,  who  by  this  time  was  roused 
into  the  intensest  interest. 

"It  was  the  longest  five  minutes  I  ever  spent,  sir. 
I  was  in  such  agony  that  the  sweat  rolled  off  my 
face,  and  I'd  a  strong  mind  to  be  done  with  it.  But 
each  time  I  reached  out  for  that  pistol  I  thought: 
'No,  you  gave  Him  five  minutes,  and  five  minutes 
He's  got  to  have.  There's  no  good  comes  of  not 
playing  fair/ 

"Then,  all  at  once,  I  felt  that  Some  One  had 
entered  the  room.  I  darsen't  lift  my  head,  but  I  knew 
He  was  there.  It  was  like  as  though  something  gen- 
tle touched  my  head,  a  kind  of  little  soft  wind,  like 
you  feel  when  anybody  passes  quite  close  to  you. 
And  then  I  looked  up  and  it  seemed  to  me  the  room 
was  filled  with  sunlight.  It  was  like  the  finest  June 
morning  you  ever  saw,  when  you  wake  early  and 
find  the  room  all  ablaze  with  light,  and  can't  sleep 
any  more.  'Glory!'  I  shouted.  'I  do  believe  I'm 
saved ;'  and  I  was.  I  didn't  know  how  He  done  it, 
but  I  knew  as  well  as  I'll  ever  know  anything  that 
Jesus  had  been  in  that  room,  and  had  stooped  down 


THE   VISION  231 

arid  touched  that  dark  soul  of  mine,  and  left  His 
sunlight  behind." 

Tears  ran  down  the  man's  face  as  he  told  this 
story.  And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  Gaunt  its  sequel, 
how  he  was  delivered  from  his  vices,  how  he  sought 
out  other  men  that  he  might  save  them,  how  five 
years  ago  he  had  bought  a  cart  which  he  wheeled 
into  the  market-square  every  day  at  noon  in  all 
weathers,  and  preached  his  plain  gospel  of  instant 
salvation  to  all  who  would  hear  him. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  broken  by  emotion,  "I'm 
only  a  poor,  ignorant  fellow,  but  in  those  five  years 
I've  seen  two  thousand  men  saved  just  as  I  was. 
And  here  in  my  city  are  scores  of  ministers,  all 
good  men,  and  with  all  kinds  of  learning,  and 
they've  never  seen  a  man  saved  like  that  in  years. 
Sir,  how  is  it?  Surely  God  had  rather  use  a  man 
with  knowledge  than  a  poor  ignorant  man  like  me, 
if  only  he'd  let  God  use  him.  And  so,  sir,  I  thought 
I'd  run  up  to  New  York,  just  to  tell  you  this,  by  way 
of  encouraging  you.  If  God  can  use  me  in  my  poor 
way,  He  can  use  you  in  a  much  bigger  way,  and  I 
believe  He  will,  if  you'll  let  Him." 

Gaunt  would  gladly  have  kept  this  strange  guest 
with  him  all  night,  but  he  refused. 

"No,"  he  said;  "I  must  get  back  by  the  night 
train.  I've  got  my  work.  But  I'll  tell  my  men  I've 
seen  you,  and  we'll  all  be  praying  for  you  to-morrow 
night." 

The  more  Gaunt  reflected  on  this  story  the  more 


232      A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

it  affected  him  by  its  simple  truth  and  pathos.  But 
it  did  more  than  affect  his  emotions :  it  was  to  him  a 
spiritual  revelation.  All  that  Palmer  had  said  to 
him  long  before  about  his  own  sense  of  Jesus  as  a 
living  Presence  came  back  to  him  with  overwhelm- 
ing force.  Here  were  two  men  of  widely  different 
type:  the  one  highly  cultured,  the  other  quite  ig- 
norant of  all  that  the  world  calls  knowledge;  yet 
each  had  experienced  the  same  revelation  of  Jesus 
as  a  Personal  Friend;  nay,  far  more,  as  a  Saviour 
capable  of  loosening  the  bonds  of  sin  and  creating 
new  life  in  the  human  soul.  He  saw  now,  not  quite 
for  the  first  time,  with  intense  lucidity  of  vision  that 
the  real  dynamic  of  all  service  for  others  lay  in  this 
experience  of  Jesus  as  a  living  Saviour.  It  was  for 
want  of  this  dynamic  that  so  many  schemes  of 
social  service  had  failed,  and  without  it  his  great 
League  of  Service  would  fail  too. 

What  if  this  man's  experience — his  crude  chal- 
lenge to  the  unseen,  the  immediate  response,  the 
room  filled  with  sunlight, — was  in  the  nature  of  the 
miraculous?  Surely  enough  had  occurred  in  his 
own  life  to  make  him  tolerant  of  miracle.  Had  not 
he,  in  the  rapid  passage  of  his  own  life  in  these  days, 
in  all  its  unfolding  of  event,  been  conscious  of  an 
Unseen  Steersman?  Besides,  there  was  always  the 
fact  to  be  reckoned  with  that  for  twenty  centuries 
all  kinds  of  men  had  testified  to  the  same  kind  of 
experience  which  had  suddenly  lifted  this  man  from 
the  depths  of  despair  into  a  world  of  infinite  light 


THE    VISION  233 

and  joy.  Cromwell  had  made  the  same  confession; 
Augustine  and  Francis,  Bunyan  and  Wesley,  and 
millions  of  humble  people  whose  names  had  per- 
ished. And  then  there  was  that  remark  about 
preachers  which  the  man  had  made — how  was  it 
that  these  men,  students  of  the  Bible  and  its  ac- 
cepted expositors,  had  never  witnessed  that  imme- 
diate deliverance  of  men  from  the  bondage  of  their 
sin,  which  he,  ignorant  street-preacher  as  he  was, 
had  seen  in  two  thousand  instances?  Could  it  be 
because  they  had  never  experienced  this  miracle  in 
themselves?  Was  it  possible  to  preach  religious 
truth,  and  yet  miss  the  supreme  spiritual  secret 
which  this  man  had  discovered — the  secret  which 
gave  him,  with  all  his  intellectual  deficiencies,  a 
power  over  the  human  soul  which  they  never  knew  ? 
A  great  horror  fell  upon  the  mind  of  Gaunt.  The 
hour  was  late,  it  was  near  midnight,  and  he  alone 
was  awake  in  the  house.  He  went  upstairs  silently 
to  his  room,  and  stood  for  a  long  time  looking  out 
upon  the  Square.  The  sky  was  bright  with  many 
lights;  across  the  corner  of  the  Square  rushed  a 
train  upon  the  Elevated  Railway,  like  a  sinuous 
comet;  vast  buildings,  the  Babel  towers  of  this  mod- 
ern Babylon,  starred  with  shining  windows,  rose 
against  the  skyline ;  and  on  all  sides  surged  the  sub- 
dued roar  of  this  restless  city,  with  a  sound  like  the 
sound  of  many  waters.  And  this  was  his  battle- 
field, this  the  immense  city  which  he  proposed  to 
conquer.  Hidden  beneath  its  multitudinous  roofs 


234     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

were  those  who  would  hear  him  on  the  morrow, 
those  who  looked  to  him  as  a  prophet;  and  beyond 
those  formidable  battlements  lay  a  continent  popu- 
lous with  cities,  and  in  all  of  them  men  half-inter- 
ested, half-sceptical,  who  wondered  what  the  mor- 
row would  bring  forth.  God  help  him,  what  had  he 
to  say  to  them?  With  what  secret  was  he  armed 
that  should  prove  stronger  than  the  selfishness  and 
lust  and  greed  which  in  all  these  cities  had  built 
the  smoking  fires  of  Moloch,  and  kindled  the  red 
hells  of  Mammon,  and  driven  the  weak  and  helpless 
through  the  flames? 

He  fell  upon  his  knees  in  an  agony  that  seemed 
to  rend  body  and  spirit  asunder.  He  prayed  in 
broken  words.  He  spread  his  naked,  tortured  soul 
before  God.  And  his  words,  each  one  torn  and 
bleeding  out  of  his  own  heart,  were  even  such  words 
as  his  strange  visitor  had  used  in  his  extremity. 
They  were  a  challenge  to  the  Unseen,  a  re-utterance 
of  the  old  cry  of  men,  whose  echo  never  leaves  the 
world :  "O  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find  Him." 

Hours  passed.  He  had  fallen  asleep  as  he  prayed, 
worn  out  with  his  emotions.  And  then  he  woke, 
quietly  as  a  child  wakes.  He  did  not  rise  from  his 
knees,  he  did  not  look  up;  he  did  not  wish  to.  But 
he  was  sensible  of  a  strong  light  that  seemed  to  roll 
in  upon  his  soul,  wave  on  wave.  He  felt  no  sense 
of  wonder;  it  all  appeared  sweetly  natural,  a  thing 
long  expected.  He  breathed  an  atmosphere  full  of 
delicious  warmth  and  comfort. 


THE   VISION  235 

There  was  a  sense  of  shadows  melting  on  a  misty 
sea.  A  long  beach,  yellow  in  the  light,  spread  at 
his  feet.  A  boat,  with  a  red  sail,  slipped  through  the 
mist  and  came  to  anchor.  A  fire  of  coals  burned 
upon  the  beach — he  could  see  how  the  air  quivered 
over  it,  where  the  flame  and  sunbeams  met.  And 
beside  the  fire  stood  a  Figure,  white-robed  and  mo- 
tionless. ...  He  moved.  He  lifted  His  hand, 
pointing  silently  to  the  distant  hills,  blue  in  the 
dawn,  and  said,  "Follow  Me." 

"And  when  the  day  was  now  breaking  Jesus 
stood  on  the  beach.     The  disciple  therefore 
whom  Jesus  loved  said,  (It  is  the  Lord' ' 
Gaunt  rose  from  his  knees,  moved  slowly  to  the 
window,  like  a  man  uncertain  of  his  footsteps,  be- 
cause his  feet  are  still  tangled  in  the  soft  mesh  of 
dreams.    Outside  the  window  lay  the  great  city  as 
he  had  seen  it  hours  before,  but  surely  in  the  interval 
something  wonderful  had  happened. 

The  great  blocks  of  building,  like  battlemented 
towers,  still  ranged  themselves  against  the  skyline; 
here  a  dome  broke  their  order,  here  a  spire;  but 
rising  over  all,  enfolding  all,  stood  the  figure  of  a 
Man. 

His  robes,  of  thinnest  gauze,  fell  across  the  city; 
His  arms  were  outspread;  and  behind  His  head 
the  stars  clustered  like  a  crown. 

He  stooped,  as  though  He  would  take  the  whole 
vast  city  to  His  bosom.  His  face  was  very  strong 
and  very  pitiful,  and  as  He  stooped,  it  seemed  doors 


236      A    PROPHE.T    IN    BABYLON 

opened  everywhere,  crowds  of  worn  and  haggard 
people  filled  the  streets,  and  hands  were  stretched 
upward  to  Him,  and  a  cry  of  gladness  filled  the  air. 
Then  the  Vision  gradually  withdrew;  it  faded  out 
among  the  stars;  but  still  the  people  stood,  and 
watched,  and  stretched  out  their  arms  to  it. 

Was  it  a  dream?  It  may  have  been;  but  Gaunt 
knew  that  it  was  a  Dream  born  of  Truth. 

Behold  he  also  had  challenged  the  Unseen  and  had 
his  answer. 

And  he  knew  then  that  that  which  he  had  waited 
for  all  his  life  had  come  to  pass.  Henceforth  he 
was  certain  of  the  Presence  of  a  Living  Saviour 
in  the  world,  for  he  also  had  met  Him. 

He  went  to  his  bed,  and  slept  like  a  little  child. 

When  he  woke  the  morning  light  shone  across 
his  bed,  and  the  Day  had  come. 


XVI 
THE   CROSS   OF  STARS 

THAT  one  slight  figure,  a  mere  black  dot, 
under  the  gaze  of  twice  ten  thousand 
eyes,  looked  pathetically  insignificant.    It 
seemed  a  thing  impossible  that  any  human  voice 
would  reach  so  vast  a  throng,  still  less  that  any 
single  man  could  dominate  this  great  assembly  with 
the  qualities  of  the  orator. 

For  Butler's  press  campaign  had  borne  its  fruit 
in  the  vastest  assembly  ever  gathered  under  the 
auspices  of  religion  in  New  York.  Hundreds  of 
people  had  travelled  long  distances  to  be  present  at 
the  service.  They  had  besieged  the  doors  early  in 
the  afternoon,  and  had  waited  patiently  through  long 
hours.  Substantial  business  men,  and  men  whose 
faces  bore  the  tan  of  outdoor  life,  jostled  one  an- 
other in  the  crowd.  The  millionaire  and  the  artisan 
sat  side  by  side.  College  youths  thronged  the  gal- 
leries, equally  ready  for  reverent  attention  or  mis- 
chievous interruption.  Many  ministers  were  pres- 
ent; they  sat  in  groups,  from  time  to  time  conversing 
in  eager  whispers.  What  had  they  come  out  to  see  ? 
No  one  knew,  but  each  felt  the  moment  pregnant 
with  possibility  and  surprise.  And  then  came  that 

237 


238      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

sudden  silence,  that  most  thrilling  of  all  moments 
when  ten  thousand  human  creatures  draw  a  long, 
shuddering  breath,  realizing  that  at  last  a  moment 
long  anticipated  had  arrived. 

"Let  us  pray/' 

The  clear,  high  tenor  dominated  in  an  instant  the 
eager  crowd. 

"Our  Father,  which  art  in  Heaven." 

And  the  multitude  found  its  voice  in  the  familiar 
petitions  of  the  Lord's  Prayer.  At  first  the  response 
was  ineffective ;  but  it  slowly  swelled  in  volume,  end- 
ing in  the  Amen  with  a  sound  like  that  of  a  break- 
ing wave. 

A  cornet  gave  the  air  of  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My 
Soul."  Had  the  old  hymn  ever  been  so  sung  before  ? 
For  there  was  no  one  there  who  did  not  know  it, 
and  none  for  whom  it  had  not  memories.  And  then, 
without  preface,  Gaunt  began  to  speak,  and  a  sigh 
of  relief  rose  from  the  crowd  when  it  realized  that 
every  word  was  distinctly  articulated,  and  that  his 
voice,  which  seemed  so  light,  nevertheless  had  a  cer- 
tain clear,  singing  quality,  which  reached  every  ear. 

He  spoke  very  simply,  at  first  traversing  the  fa- 
miliar ground  of  his  last  address  at  Mayfield  Avenue 
Church,  which  Butler  had  widely  circulated.  Those 
who  had  expected  some  sensational  utterance,  or 
some  vehement  attack  upon  the  churches,  grew  rest- 
less under  a  sense  of  disappointment.  It  soon  be- 
came evident  that  Gaunt's  purpose  was  constructive 
and  not  destructive.  His  address  was  confessional 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS          239 

in  tone;  the  apology  of  a  strong  man  for  the  nature 
of  his  life.  And  as  this  tone  deepened,  the  restless- 
ness subsided.  He  painted  for  them,  in  a  few  deft 
touches,  what  Christianity  had  been  to  him,  and  what 
it  had  become.  He  uttered  no  word  of  blame  or 
criticism  of  others ;  he  quietly  described  the  develop- 
ment of  his  own  mind  and  thought.  It  was  the  sort 
of  speech  that  a  man  might  have  made  in  the  inti- 
macy of  a  college  room  to  a  trusted  friend.  Yet 
nothing  could  have  been  more  effective.  He  was 
simply  taking  that  vast  audience  into  his  confidence. 

"Was  Christianity  played  out?"  he  asked. 

And  then,  with  a  gesture  that  seemed  to  gather 
all  the  units  of  the  multitude  into  solidarity,  he  re- 
plied :  "This  audience  is  the  most  convincing  answer 
to  the  question.  It  is  the  proof  that  the  most  vital  of 
all  interests  in  human  life  is  the  religious  interest. 
Christ  is  not  dead.  He  only  sleeps.  He  may  awake 
at  any  moment.  And  this  is  the  day  of  resurrection. 
From  the  tomb  of  outworn  tradition  and  convention 
He  is  coming  forth  in  the  indestructible  vitality  of 
ideas  which  cannot  die.  The  rust-worn  hinges  give 
way,  the  doors  roll  back.  Behold  Him,  for  He  is 
here!" 

So  vivid  were  the  words  that  it  seemed  as 
though  an  actual  vision  met  the  eyes  of  the  silent 
crowd.  They  leaned  forward,  surprised,  thrilled, 
expectant. 

"It  is  even  as  the  greatest  poet  of  modern  thought 
has  said,"  he  continued :  "  The  good  Lord  Jesus  has 


240      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

not  had  His  day.  It  has  only  dawned.  It  will  come 
by  and  by.  The  eastern  sun  shines  upon  an  empty 
tomb,  and  the  day  grows  strong.' ' 

A  wave  of  strong  emotion  swept  across  the  multi- 
tude. The  college  boys  in  the  gallery  hung  forward 
open-mouthed.  The  rhetorician  had  often  tri- 
umphed in  this  vast  auditorium;  but  every  one  felt 
that  here  was  more  than  rhetoric.  Here  was  a  be- 
lieving man,  a  man  wholly  convinced,  and  his  power 
of  conviction  dominated  the  minds  of  those  who 
heard  him,  compelling  their  assent.  There  was 
every  kind  of  mind  represented  in  that  great  array 
of  men  and  women — the  curious,  the  flippant,  the 
sceptical,  the  serious,  the  hostile, — yet  at  that  mo- 
ment each  realized  with  more  or  less  of  intensity 
that  religion  was,  after  all,  the  most  vital  thing  in 
the  world.  Perhaps  the  noblest  power  of  the  orator 
is  to  suggest  the  presence  in  other  minds  of 
thoughts  which  they  themselves  do  not  dis- 
cern, to  give  them  form,  and  to  interpret  them. 
It  was  precisely  this  triumph  that  Gaunt  achieved. 

The  passionate  moment  passed,  leaving  behind  it 
tingling  nerves;  and  then  in  clear,  incisive  tones 
Gaunt  began  to  analyze  the  reason  for  the  apparent 
failure  of  existing  Christianity.  It  was  the  most 
difficult  part  of  his  task,  and  he  knew  it.  Had  he 
been  bitter  or  satirical,  he  must  have  failed.  He 
would  at  once  have  antagonized  the  larger  part  of 
his  audience,  for  the  larger  part  was  nominally 
Christian.  He  took,  instead,  the  one  course  which 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS  241 

could  have  succeeded.  He  appealed  to  the  best 
instincts  of  his  audience,  to  the  nobler  part  in  their 
hearts.  He  spoke  the  truth,  but  it  was  in  love. 

"Were  they,  the  Christian  people,  really  contented 
with  their  own  conventional  Christianity?  Could 
they  conceive  nothing  better?  If  their  Master 
should  then  and  there  enter  that  auditorium,  dust- 
stained,  weary,  bearing  on  His  shoulders  the  heavy 
Cross,  would  they  welcome  Him  ?  Would  they  even 
recognize  Him.  Or,  if  they  did,  would  not  their 
easy-going  Christianity  shrivel  up  in  shame  before 
this  authentic  Christianity,  which  meant  derision, 
mockery,  goodness  sacrificing  itself  for  the  ungrate- 
ful, love  stooping  to  the  lowest  tasks  of  service,  and 
at  last  the  blood  of  a  great  sacrifice  poured  out  will- 
ingly for  a  world  that  did  not  understand  its  sub- 
lime anguish  and  renunciation?" 

And  once  more  the  note  of  passion  vibrated 
through  the  hearts  of  those  who  heard.  Many  eyes 
were  turned  instinctively  toward  the  doors  of  the 
auditorium,  as  though  they  expected  to  see  the 
actual  entrance  of  the  Master  with  the  Cross. 

Gaunt  stood  motionless,  with  extended  arm  point- 
ing to  the  door.  The  silence  was  intense.  It  was  so 
complete  that,  far  away  in  the  distant  galleries,  a 
woman's  sob  was  distinctly  audible. 

"Yet  we  must  meet  Him/'  he  said,  in  low,  thrill- 
ing tones.  "We  must  meet  Him  at  the  final  Judg- 
ment. We  are  meeting  Him  now,  for  the  throne 
of  judgment  is  set  in  the  sunset-clouds  of  every 


242      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

day,  and  is  in  our  hearts  when  the  book  of  each 
day's  life  is  closed." 

It  was  very  simply  said.  Others  had  no  doubt 
said  it  before.  But  as  Gaunt  said  it,  it  had  an 
authority  of  a  revelation.  The  wonderful  voice 
trembled,  the  spare  figure,  with  outstretched  arm, 
stood  tense  and  rigid;  his  face  glowed  with  awful 
fire. 

Again  the  woman's  sob  was  heard  from  the  dis- 
tant gallery.  It  was  followed  by  a  long,  shuddering 
breath  in  the  immense  audience,  as  of  the  wind 
sighing  in  the  boughs  of  innumerable  trees. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  the  pent-up 
emotion  of  the  multitude  would  relieve  itself  in  some 
hysteric  outburst.  For  many  there  it  was  a  moment 
forever  memorable  and  awful.  It  was  as  though 
the  veils  of  use  and  custom  were  suddenly  rent  in 
twain,  the  forms  of  religion  were  dissolved,  and 
the  very  soul  and  essence  of  truth  stood  revealed. 

And  then,  in  a  voice  perfectly  composed  and 
calm,  Gaunt  resumed  his  exposition  of  ideals.  He 
sketched  rapidly  the  condition  of  New  York,  of 
America,  of  the  world,  in  relation  to  religion;  the 
indifference  which  sprang  from  ignorance  or  de- 
spair; the  impotence  of  religion  to  touch  in  any 
real  way  the  lives  even  of  those  who  accepted  its 
truths;  the  enormous  social  problems  that  threat- 
ened the  very  existence  of  the  Republic;  the  call  of 
the  times  to  all  good  men  and  women  to  combine 
to  reinstate  religion  as  a  vital  reality  in  the  govern- 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS  243 

ment  of  the  world.  Could  they  effect  this  reinstate- 
ment? It  looked  impossible;  it  was  really  easy.  It 
became  easy  when  the  actual  life  of  Jesus  was 
accepted  as  the  model  of  all  human  life.  Chris- 
tianity was  really  nothing  more  nor  less  than  follow- 
ing Christ.  It  was  not  a  mode  of  thought,  but  a  rule 
of  life.  And  what  he  had  to  propose  that  night 
was  the  union  of  all  who  loved  in  the  service  of  all 
who  suffered.  He  proposed  the  creation  of  a  new 
social  force,  the  League  of  Universal  Service. 

It  was  for  this  moment  that  Gaunt's  friends  had 
waited  with  eager  anxiety.  Butler,  particularly, 
knew  from  long  journalistic  experience  the  value  of 
phrases:  how  it  was  in  the  power  of  a  phrase, 
rightly  uttered  at  the  psychologic  moment,  to 
shatter  creeds,  to  create  parties,  to  start  far-reaching 
movements.  Accustomed  both  to  measure  and  cre- 
ate public  opinion,  he  knew  that  the  critical  moment 
had  now  arrived.  And  he  had  prepared  for  that 
moment  in  a  way  peculiarly  his  own,  without  any 
consultation  with  Gaunt. 

It  was  a  way  which  Gaunt  would  not  have  ap- 
proved, and  that  was  why  he  did  not  consult  him. 
It  was  daring,  sensational,  spectacular,  but  Butler 
knew  that  there  were  moments  when  a  great  multi- 
tude could  be  profoundly  moved  by  such  a  method. 
And  so,  unknown  to  Gaunt,  he  had  conspired  with 
the  authorities  of  the  Garden  to  erect  a  vast  Cross, 
studded  with  electric  lights,  in  the  dark  shadows  on 
the  back  of  the  stage.  A  curtain  covered  it  from 


244      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

view,  and  beside  the  curtain  stood  two  men,  who 
had  received  their  instructions  from  him. 

"And  so  I  propose,"  Gaunt  reiterated,  "a  League 
of  Universal  Service — whose  emblem  is  the  Cross, 
whose  motto  is  the  union  of  all  who  love  in  the 
service  of  all  who  suffer." 

And  at  these  words  Butler  knew  his  hour  had 
come.  He  lifted  his  hand;  it  was  a  preconcerted 
signal. 

And  then  in  swift  silence  the  curtain  lifted,  and 
suddenly  there  flashed  out,  high  in  air,  above  the 
astonished  multitude  a  vast  Cross,  blazing  with 
many  lights. 

A  cry  rose  from  the  multitude — a  cry  of  wonder, 
delight,  surprise.  All  over  the  vast  auditorium  men 
and  women  rose  to  their  feet  staring  and  startled,  as 
if  a  miracle  had  happened.  Gaunt  turned  swiftly,  saw 
the  flaming  splendour,  and  sat  down,  overwhelmed, 
his  face  in  his  hands.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  as 
though  Butler's  daring  had  been  miscalculated,  as 
though  it  would  result  in  confusion.  Then  a  happy 
thought  seized  the  man  with  the  cornet.  He  turned 
to  the  quartette  who  had  led  the  singing,  and  the 
next  moment  they  rose  to  their  feet. 

The  cornet  rang  out,  like  an  inspired  voice,  in  the 
strains  of  "When  I  Survey  the  Wondrous  Cross." 

And  then  the  emotion  of  the  crowd  broke  loose 
at  last.  Ten  thousand  men  and  women  were  on 
their  feet.  The  crowd  needed  no  prompting.  With 
that  unanimity  possible  only  in  moments  of  intense 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS          245 

emotion,  they  felt  the  spirit  of  the  hour,  and  in  the 
presence  of  that  Cross  of  starry  lights  sang  : 

"When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross, 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died, 
My  richest  gain  I  count  but  loss, 
And  pour  contempt  on  all  my  pride." 

It  was  the  birth-song  of  the  League  of  Service 


The  hymn  ceased.  The  great  multitude  stood 
silent,  uncertain  what  to  do.  It  was  noticeable  that 
no  one  left  the  hall. 

Gaunt  rose  once  more,  his  composure  restored. 

"I  take  it  that  you  endorse  my  ideal,"  he  said.  "If 
^ou  do,  resume  your  seats.  Let  me  explain  in  a  few 
words  precisely  what  it  is  I  mean  by  the  League  of 
Universal  Service." 

The  great  audience  once  more  became  silent. 

"Those  who  suffer  are  many,"  he  said;  "those 
who  love  are  yet  more  numerous.  The  vital  princi- 
ple of  the  League  is,  as  I  have  said,  the  union  of 
all  who  love  in  the  service  of  all  who  suffer. 

"You  will  notice  that  in  this  ideal  there  is  nothing 
antagonistic  to  any  existing  church.  I  have  no 
quarrel  with  any  form  of  creed  that  helps  men  toward 
right  living,  or  any  organisation  that  admits  the 
Mastership  of  Jesus  Christ.  I  make  my  appeal  alike 
to  Catholic  and  Protestant,  to  Unitarians  and  Trini- 
tarians. I  would  not  even  exclude  the  Buddhist  and 
the  Mohammedan.  I  make  my  appeal  to  men  of 
no  fixed  religious  creed,  who,  nevertheless,  admit  the 


246      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

principle  of  altruism  in  human  conduct.  The  bond 
is  not  words  but  deeds.  The  aim  is  the  expression 
of  a  spirit  and  principle,  not  of  a  theology.  It  is 
a  vast  confederacy  of  kindness  which  I  contemplate. 
Of  that  confederacy  there  can,  however,  be  but  one 
head.  Jesus  Christ  alone  has  the  right  to  the 
primacy  of  this  confederacy.  It  is  His,  because  no 
one  has  loved  mankind  as  He  loved,  no  one  has 
done  for  men  what  He  has  done,  no  example  of 
self-sacrifice  and  love  can  equal  His. 

"You  will  ask  me  if  I  have  any  precise  and  defi- 
nite plan  of  action  to  lay  before  you? 

"I  have. 

"I  desire  first  to  enrol  formally  all  who  are  ready 
to  join  the  League,  as  one  would  enrol  volunteers 
for  war,  if  a  great  national  peril  threatened  us. 

"Those  who  so  enrol  themselves  will  pledge 
themselves  to  allow  no  day  to  pass  without  some 
positive  act  of  service  for  others. 

"In  every  district  of  a  city,  or  in  every  town  or 
village  where  the  League  is  established,  the  members 
will  meet  for  a  weekly  conference,  in  order  to  de- 
termine the  best  means  of  organized  effort  by  which 
the  principles  of  the  League  can  be  applied  to  the 
needs  of  their  locality. 

"The  societies  of  the  League  thus  established  will 
pledge  themselves  to  use  all  their  influence  for  every 
work  of  social  betterment  and  for  the  return  to  all 
public  offices  of  men  of  good  character  irrespective 
of  all  party  considerations. 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS          247 

"I  propose  further  that  each  member  of  the 
League  shall  contribute  a  small  sum — let  us  say  a 
dollar  a  year — to  the  common  treasury  of  the 
League.  I  have  been  warned  that  this  proposition  is 
perilous;  the  only  peril  that  I  can  discern  is  that 
the  funds  so  raised  may  be  used  for  improper  pur- 
poses. Let  me  say,  then,  that  neither  I,  nor  any  of 
those  now  associated  with  me,  will  touch  one  cent 
of  this  money.  It  will  be  used  in  its  entirety  for 
the  work  of  the  League,  and  every  cent  will  be 
strictly  accounted  for. 

"This  is  not  a  rich  man's  movement.  It  must  not 
be  financed  by  rich  men.  It  is  a  people's  movement. 
It  exists  for  the  people,  it  must  be  supported  by  the 
people,  and  hence  I  fix  the  annual  subscription  so 
low  that  the  poorest  can  afford  it. 

"I  propose  further  that  every  man  and  woman 
joining  the  League  shall  wear  some  simple  badge. 
Men  are  proud  to  wear  the  Grand  Army  badge. 
They  should  be  prouder  still  to  wear  the  badge  of 
the  Grand  Army  of  Jesus  Christ,  to  belong  to  the 
divine  Salvage  Corps  of  Humanity. 

"And  to-night  I  have  found  what  that  badge 
should  be." 

He  pointed  to  the  illuminated  Cross. 

"It  shall  be  a  Cross  with  stars  upon  it.  The  Cross 
shall  symbolize  the  sacrifice  Love  makes  for  others. 
The  stars  shall  symbolize  the  light  eternal  that  shines 
upon  the  road  of  Service.  'And  they  that  turn 
many  to  righteousness  shall  shine  as  the  stars,  and 


248      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

as    the  brightness  of  the  firmament   forever  and 


ever/ 


If  inspiration  still  means  anything  in  human  life, 
surely  this  was  Gaunt's  inspired  moment.  He  had 
been  ignorant  of  Butler's  device.  It  had  taken  him 
by  surprise.  But  when  the  Cross  blazed  out  above 
the  people,  when  they  rose  as  one  man  and  sang, 
"When  I  Survey  the  Wondrous  Cross,"  he  felt  once 
more,  as  he  had  so  often  felt  of  late,  that  he  was 
the  servant  of  events  rather  than  their  creator.  He 
shared  the  deep  emotion  of  the  crowd.  He  realized 
that  all  great  movements  are  born  out  of  emotional 
moments.  The  barriers  of  conventionalism,  which 
he  might  in  vain  have  sought  to  break  down  with 
words,  had  suddenly  fallen  of  themselves  when  the 
most  sacred  symbol  known  to  man  suddenly  flashed 
upon  the  crowd.  It  was  the  very  suddenness  of  the 
vision  that  had  shaken  men,  that  had  lifted  them 
out  of  themselves,  that  had  given  the  concrete  form 
to  his  idealism.  Twenty  centuries  of  love  and 
heroic  passion,  interpreted  in  the  noblest  lives  known 
to  history,  saluted  them  in  this  illumined  Cross. 
And  in  that  moment  he  had  suddenly  realized  that 
no  truer,  no  more  poignant  and  suggestive  badge  of 
the  League  he  wished  to  form,  could  be  found  than 
in  a  Cross  of  Stars. 

Gaunt's  declaration  that  the  Cross  was  the  symbol 
of  the  League  marked  the  triumphant  moment  of 
this  memorable  evening. 

Once  more  the  vast  audience  rose  to  its  feet. 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS          249 

It  was  a  simultaneous  movement,  a  spontaneous  rec- 
ognition of  the  birth  of  a  new  world-force.  In  the 
perfect  silence  which  ensued  Gordon  stepped  to  the 
front  of  the  steps. 

"I  am  an  old  man,"  he  said.  "My  life  may  be  a 
matter  of  moments.  I  wish  to  give  every  moment 
that  is  still  mine  to  the  work  of  the  League.  I  ask 
for  the  privilege  of  being  the  first  to  write  my  name 
upon  its  muster-roll." 

"And  I  will  be  the  second,"  said  Butler. 

And  then,  from  every  part  of  the  hall,  men  and 
women  pressed  forward  in  a  continuous  line. 

An  hour  passed,  and  still  the  enrolment  went  on. 
Again  and  again  the  crowd  broke  into  a  song,  re- 
turning at  intervals  to  that  great  hymn,  "When  I 
Survey  the  Wondrous  Cross,"  which  alone  seemed 
to  express  the  deepest  sentiment  of  the  hour. 

Many  had  left  the  auditorium,  but  so  vast  was 
the  throng  outside  that  their  places  were  immediately 
filled  by  newcomers. 

"What's  it  all  about?"  asked  one  of  these  new- 
comers, a  roughly-dressed  man  with  a  stentorian 
voice. 

"It's  a  kind  of  League,"  replied  a  boyish  voice 
from  the  gallery.  "You're  to  pay  a  dollar  and  love 
everybody." 

"I  guess  that's  cheap  at  the  price,"  the  man  with 
the  stentorian  voice  replied.  "Put  my  name  down, 
mister." 

To  these  late  comers  Gaunt  again  expounded  the 


2$o      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

objects  of  the  League.  Brief  and  fragmentary  as 
these  expositions  were,  yet  they  made  their  im- 
pression. 

It  was  near  midnight.  Gaunt,  unaware  of  physi- 
cal fatigue,  still  stood  at  his  post,  welcoming  each 
fresh  volunteer.  And  still  the  Cross  of  Stars  blazed 
overhead,  as  in  conscious  triumph. 

At  last  the  meeting  closed. 

Butler's  usually  impassive  face  glowed  with  emo- 
tion. 

"Five  thousand  persons  at  least  must  have  joined 
us,"  he  said.  "At  this  rate,  in  a  year  we  shall  have 
a  million." 

He  gathered  up  sheet  after  sheet  covered  with 
names. 

These  names  represented  almost  every  phase  of 
society.  The  addresses  given  were  Fifth  Avenue 
mansions  and  East  Side  tenement  houses. 

"Come,"  said  Butler,  as  he  led  Gaunt  away, 
"there  can  be  no  sleep  for  either  of  us  to-night.  I 
must  go  at  once  to  the  office.  You  will  do  well  to 
go  through  these  lists  immediately  and  enumerate 
them." 

The  cornet  gave  the  first  bar  of  the  Doxology. 
There  were  still  in  the  house  some  thousands  of 
people  to  sing  it. 

And  so,  back  to  the  House  of  Joy  went  Gaunt 
and  his  little  band  of  workers.  It  had  been  a  night 
of  triumph. 

The  League  of  Universal  Service  was  founded. 


THE    CROSS    OF    STARS          251 

And  as  Gaunt  once  more  looked  from  his  window 
across  the  Square,  he  knew  that  the  vision  he  had 
had  of  a  Christ  stooping  over  New  York  in  yearn- 
ing love,  was  no  hallucination. 

The  stars  shone  clear,  a  soft  wind  whispering 
of  spring  moved  among  the  trees  in  the  Square; 
but  though  he  saw  no  longer  a  Divine  Man,  whose 
diaphanous  robe  trailed  in  dim  light  above  the  city, 
yet  he  heard  more  clearly  than  he  had  ever  heard 
the  irresistible  Voice  which  proclaimed:  "Lo,  I  am 
with  you  alway,  even  unto  the  end  of  the  world." 

"Master,  this  is  Thy  City,  and  this  is  Thy  work," 
he  cried.  "Use  me  as  Thou  wilt,  but  only  use  me." 

And  again  the  voice  replied,  "Lo,  I  am  with  you 
alway." 

And  the  stars  paled,  the  eastern  glory  grew  and 
widened. 

The  day  was  once  more  at  the  dawn.  It  shone 
upon  that  long  path  of  labour  and  endeavour  which 
Gaunt  must  tread  to  make  his  dreams  come  true; 
and  Gaunt  bowed  his  head,  and  accepted  his 
vocation. 


XVII 
OLIVIA'S   CHOICE 

THE  leaven  of  the  new  movement  spread 
fast,  especially  among  the  churches. 
What  at  first  appeared  fantastic  and 
sensational  soon  proved  itself  to  be  a  vindication 
of  reason  in  relation  to  religion.  It  was  a  return 
to  reality,  the  sudden  emergence  of  the  essential 
and  imperishable  elements  of  religion. 

To  multitudes  of  men,  especially  those  men  who 
composed  the  younger  ministry  and  membership  of 
the  churches,  its  effect  was  like  the  awakening  from 
a  dream.  What  had  the  ministry  been  teaching? 
What  had  the  churches  been  doing  ?  Both  alike  had 
been  moving  in  an  unreal  world.  No  wonder  church 
attendance  had  declined.  The  average  man  felt  no 
need  of  the  Church  because  the  Church  did  not  un- 
derstand his  need. 

"You  can  make  men  believe,  but  he  who  believes 
against  his  will  is  worse  than  an  atheist/'  was  one 
of  Gordon's  pregnant  sayings. 

"It  is  not  doctrines  that  inspire  conduct,  but  con- 
duct that  creates  doctrines/'  was  another. 

Gordon  had  been  saying  these  things  all  his  life, 
and  had  suffered  for  saying  them.  They  had  been 

252 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  253 

hard  sayings,  which  only  a  few  elect  souls  could 
receive.  But  he  now  found  that  the  world  had 
moved,  after  all.  His  teaching,  long  neglected  and 
derided,  became  the  gospel  of  the  hour.  He  be- 
came, as  Gaunt  had  prognosticated,  the  prophet  of 
the  movement,  and  his  words  were  everywhere 
quoted,  commented  on,  and  endorsed. 

"We  have  treated  Christianity  as  something  to 
be  thought  about/'  he  wrote  in  one  of  his  books; 
"whereas,  it  is  not  a  system  of  thought  at  all,  but 
a  code  of  life.  Jesus  lives  in  the  eternal  memory  of 
the  race  not  alone  by  what  He  taught,  but  by  what 
He  did.  Others  could  have  preached  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount.  Jesus  alone  lived  it.  To  live  a  virtue 
is  greatly  more  than  to  attain  to  the  clearest  vision 
of  what  virtue  is.  It  needs  a  diviner  inspiration  to 
live  one  day  well  than  to  write  a  gospel.  The  only 
real  claim  to  inspiration  which  any  gospel  has,  is  that 
it  can  help  a  single  man  to  live  a  single  day  well." 

Teachings  such  as  these,  widely  disseminated  and 
backed  up  by  the  conspicuous  example  of  the  League 
of  Service,  were  bound  to  have  their  effect;  but  the 
chief  reason  of  their  potency  lay,  after  all,  in  the 
ripeness  of  men's  minds  to  receive  them.  Gaunt 
had  not  judged  wrongly  when  he  had  announced  a 
universal  revolt  against  the  existing  Church.  But 
behind  every  revolt  there  is  some  ideal  of  recon- 
struction. To  deny  is  really  to  affirm. 

"Men  hate  because  they  love/'  Gordon  wrote. 
"Hatred  is  simply  love  reversed.  He  who  hates  a 


254      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

thing  because  it  is  bad  is  already  in  love  with  some- 
thing better.  Hatred  is  the  shadow  thrown  by 
love." 

And  so,  as  the  great  controversy  went  on,  it 
proved  to  be. 

But  because  hatred  must  precede  love,  the  imme- 
diate effect  of  the  movement  was  immense  dissen- 
sion. This  dissension  made  itself  felt  first,  as  was 
natural,  in  the  churches.  And  among  the  first  to 
feel  the  ferment  was  Jordan's. 

Jordan  himself  contributed  to  this  effect  in  no 
small  degree  by  his  vehement  denunciation  of  Gaunt. 
In  this,  however,  he  failed  in  his  usual  astuteness, 
and  mistook  the  temper  of  his  church.  He  had  occu- 
pied a  position  of  supremacy  for  so  many  years,  his 
authority  had  been  so  long  unquestioned,  that  any 
revolt  against  that  authority  seemed  incredible,  and 
hence  he  stubbornly  refused  to  recognize  the  signs  of 
the  times.  But  as  the  weeks  passed,  the  proofs  that 
his  authority  over  his  congregation  was  weakened 
became  too  evident  for  denial.  His  geniality  for- 
sook him;  he  became  anxious.  Sleep  failed  him, 
and  he  grew  querulous.  And  then,  to  complete  his 
discomfiture,  he  found  the  spirit  of  revolt  active  in 
his  own  household. 

The  Jordan  household  consisted  of  a  sick  wife 
and  two  children,  Robert  and  Olivia.  Robert  had 
long  ago  left  home,  after  a  series  of  bitter  quarrels 
with  his  father.  At  sixteen  Robert  had  been  a  high- 
spirited  and  lovable  boy,  with  no  worse  vice  than  a 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  255 

certain  proud  impatience  of  restraint.  At  eighteen 
he  had  gone  to  college,  taking  with  him  no  better 
moral  ballast  than  a  narrow  traditional  theology 
which  had  never  commended  itself  to  his  intellect, 
and  had  long  been  repugnant  to  his  heart.  A  year 
at  college  had  turned  him  into  a  freethinker.  His 
freethinking  at  the  worst  was  but  the  effervescence 
of  a  youthful  mind;  but  with  the  common  vanity  of 
youth  he  had  been  proud  to  parade  it  as  a  symbol 
of  liberty.  If  the  boy's  father  had  possessed  any 
real  elasticity  or  sympathy  of  intellect,  no  great  harm 
would  have  been  done;  but  Jordan  possessed  neither. 
He  did  not  attempt  to  argue  with  his  son;  he  com- 
manded his  obedience.  He  had  never  known  in 
himself  the  ferment  of  a  youthful  mind,  and  he 
could  not  comprehend  it  in  another.  A  sympathetic 
father  would  have  recognized  in  this  ferment  of  un- 
digested ideas  the  signs  of  a  growing  intellect; 
Jordan  saw  in  it  only  the  evidence  of  dire  apostasy. 
He  refused  to  let  the  boy  return  to  college  on  the 
ground  that  he  was  responsible  for  his  son's  moral 
safety  and  must,  therefore,  keep  the  boy  under  his 
own  eye.  Of  all  courses  which  he  could  have  taken, 
this  was  the  unwisest  and  the  worst.  Cut  off  from 
the  natural  comradeship  of  youth,  spied  upon  and 
hindered  in  all  his  pursuits,  left  without  regular  em- 
ployment, and  treated  with  habitual  sarcasm,  the 
boy  soon  fell  into  evil  courses,  less  from  a  liking  for 
evil  than  a  warm  detestation  of  what  passed  for 
good  in  his  father's  house.  The  end  came  suddenly, 


256      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

when  one  night,  coming  home  late,  the  boy  found 
his  father's  door  closed  against  him.  The  next 
morning  he  had  disappeared.  Enquiries  proved 
vain;  he  had  never  since  been  heard  of.  Too  late, 
Jordan  would  have  given  anything  to  have  opened 
the  door  to  the  boy  against  whom  the  door  had  been 
locked  on  that  night  of  anger;  but  beyond  a  tight- 
ening of  the  mouth  and  some  fresh  lines  upon  the 
forehead,  Jordan  gave  no  sign  of  what  he  felt.  The 
name  of  Robert  was  never  spoken  in  his  father's 
presence.  It  was  from  that  night  of  the  closed  door 
that  the  mother's  sickness  began — a  sickness  be- 
yond the  reach  of  medicine. 

In  the  secret  forlornness  of  his  heart,  Jordan 
turned  for  comfort  to  his  daughter.  Olivia  Jordan, 
like  her  brother,  was  high-spirited,  but  of  a  much 
more  ductile  nature.  When  Robert  left  home  she 
was  too  young  to  understand  the  causes  of  the  dis- 
aster, but  she  recognized  the  ceaseless,  incurable 
grief  of  her  father,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him. 
She  had  shared  his  confidences,  as  far  as  he  was 
capable  of  imparting  them;  she  had  been  educated 
into  his  view  of  things :  and  the  mere  power  of  daily 
contiguity  had  shaped  her  character  into  a  fashion 
consonant  with  her  father's  habits  of  thought. 
She  had  grown  into  a  beautiful  and  thoughtful 
woman :  conventionally  active  in  church  work,  pop- 
ular among  the  people,  and  much  loved  for  her 
graces  of  disposition  and  person. 

Olivia  Jordan  had  been  present  at  the  great  meet- 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  257 

ing  in  Madison  Square,  and  had  been  profoundly 
impressed.  It  proved  the  turning-point  of  her  his- 
tory. From  that  moment  she  had  become  her 
father's  unwilling  judge.  It  is  a  terrible  hour  for 
parents  when  the  personality  which  they  have  cre- 
ated assumes  its  own  rights,  and  is  no  more  plastic 
to  their  control;  that  hour  had  now  come  for  Jor- 
dan. Olivia  heard  in  silence  her  father's  public  and 
private  criticism  of  Gaunt.  She  heard  with  a 
divided,  and  latterly  with  a  dissenting,  mind.  She 
had  so  long  trusted  her  father's  judgment  that  when 
she  at  last  reached  the  point  of  questioning  it  the 
process  of  revolt  was  swift.  Night  after  night,  as 
she  lay  sleepless,  it  seemed  as  though  some  power 
not  herself,  a  power  at  once  acute  and  malicious, 
pieced  the  past  together,  illumined  it,  analyzed  and 
dissected  it,  and  finally  combined  its  elements  into 
dreadful  coherence.  She  realized  the  treachery  of 
such  thoughts,  but  she  could  not  help  herself.  Again 
and  again,  by  an  effort  of  the  will,  she  dismissed 
them;  always  they  returned  again  like  a  pain  which 
increases  after  each  interval  of  postponement.  The 
father  whom  she  had  always  regarded  as  wise 
she  saw  now  as  foolish  and  misguided.  Yet  it  was 
not  for  her  to  say  so.  Even  though  he  were  a  thou- 
sandfold more  wrong  than  he  was,  yet  it  was  her 
duty  to  be  silent.  But  she  had  no  sooner  reached 
this  conclusion  than  the  mind  ran  back  again  like  a 
returning  tide,  and  she  felt  her  silence  a  worse 
treachery  than  the  plainest  speech  could  be.  She 


258      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

grew  pale  and  thin  with  the  constant  agitation  of 
her  thoughts.  Her  cheerfulness  left  her,  and  she 
went  about  her  household  tasks  with  leaden  feet. 
For  a  long  time  her  father  had  been  too  absorbed 
in  his  own  difficulties  to  notice  her  dejection;  but 
she  knew  that  the  time  must  come  when  her  secret 
would  be  laid  bare,  and  at  last  it  came. 

On  a  certain  evening  Jordan  had  entertained  at 
his  house  a  number  of  his  clerical  friends,  who  called 
themselves  satirically  the  S.  P.  Club,  or  the  Club  of 
Superior  Persons.  The  club  met  once  a  month, 
nominally  for  the  discussion  of  theological  questions, 
really  for  the  purpose  of  comradeship.  At  the 
dinner-table  that  evening  Gaunt  and  his  doings  were 
the  theme  of  conversation.  It  was  soon  apparent 
that  not  a  single  member  of  the  club  was  friendly 
to  him.  He  himself  and  his  work  was  the  subject 
of  much  humorous  derision,  but  behind  the  humour 
there  rankled  an  element  of  acrid  hostility. 

"He's  quite  mad,"  said  Jordan.  "I  saw  the  signs 
of  it  long  ago  and  warned  him.  He'll  end  where 
most  charlatans  end,  in  a  madhouse." 

"If  it  were  only  madness !"  said  one  of  the  party. 
"For  my  part,  I  can't  stop  at  that  verdict.  He  has 
the  disastrous  sanity  of  the  anarchist." 

"Oh,  he's  sane  enough  in  the  ordinary  sense,  I 
suppose,"  retorted  Jordan.  "He,  at  least,  knows 
how  to  play  for  popularity." 

"Father,  is  that  quite  fair?"  asked  Olivia,  in  a 
voice  that  trembled. 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  259 

"Why,  what  do  you  know  about  it,  my  child  ?" 

"I  may  not  know  all  that  you  know,  father,  but  I 
am  sure  that  Mr.  Gaunt  is  honest." 

Jordan  flushed  angrily. 

"The  worst  men  in  history  have  thought  them- 
selves honest,"  he  retorted. 

"And  surely  the  best,  too,"  she  replied,  in  a  low 
voice. 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Jordan  turned 
the  conversation  with  a  laugh. 

But  it  was  clear  that  he  was  both  angry  and  dis- 
concerted. 

"I  think  you  had  better  go  to  your  mother, 
Olivia,"  he  said  a  moment  later.  "She  may  be 
wanting  you." 

Olivia  flushed  and  left  the  room. 

Two  hours  later,  when  the  meeting  of  the  club 
was  over,  Jordan  called  her.  He  was  in  a  good 
humour  now,  as  he  usually  was  after  a  club  night, 
when  he  had  been  strengthened  in  his  own  opinions 
by  hearing  them  expressed  by  others. 

"And  so  my  little  girl  has  become  a  contro- 
versialist," he  said,  with  a  smile.  "Sit  down,  my 
dear,  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Olivia  silently  obeyed.  Her  face  was  pale,  and 
she  could  scarcely  control  the  nervous  movement 
of  her  hands. 

"I  suppose,  my  dear,  it's  quite  natural  that  you 
should  have  been  impressed  by  Gaunt's  speech  in 
Madison  Garden.  I  own  it  was  effective.  But  do 


260     A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

you  think  it  was  quite  nice  of  you  to  contradict 
me  so  flatly  at  my  own  table  in  the  presence  of 
others,  my  child?" 

"No,  father,  it  was  not  nice  of  me  at  all.  I  am 
sorry  that  I  did  it,  for  I  saw  that  it  upset  you." 

"Well,  my  child,  that' s  enough  said.  It's  all  I 
expected  you  to  say,  and  I  was  sorry  less  for  myself 
than  that  those  who  heard  you  should  have  a  bad 
opinion  of  your  judgment.  So  now  we'll  forget  all 
about  Gaunt  and  talk  of  something  else." 

Olivia  sat  silent  for  some  moments.  Then  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice :  "But,  father,  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  Mr.  Gaunt.  I've  wanted  to  for  a  long 
time,  but  I've  been  afraid.  I  am  sorry  that  I  spoke 
when  I  did,  but  you  must  not  think  that  I  did  not 
mean  what  I  said.  I  did  mean  it,  and  I  mean  it  still. 
I  think  Mr.  Gaunt  is  a  very  noble  man,  and  I  can't 
think  you  are  quite  just  in  the  way  you  talk  of  him." 

Jordan's  face  hardened  at  the  words. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me  you  believe  in  a  man  whom 
I  have  every  reason  to  dislike  and  condemn.  In 
other  words,  you  set  up  your  judgment  against 
mine?" 

"But  why  do  you  dislike  and  condemn  him, 
father  ?  Do  you  condemn  him  only  because  you  dis- 
like him?" 

"That  is  not  a  question  you  ought  to  put  to  me." 

"But,  father,  I  can't  understand  your  feelings. 
And  I'm  dreadfully  afraid  you  are  wrong.  Oh, 
it  hurts  me  to  say  it,  but  I  must  say  it.  I  have 


OLIVIA'S   CHOICE  261 

always  taken  your  word  for  law.  I  have  done  so 
sometimes  against  my  own  judgment.  But  I  am 
no  longer  a  child,  father.  There  are  matters  on 
which  I  must  think  for  myself,  matters  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  this  is  one  of  them." 

"And  since  when  have  you  commenced  the  dan- 
gerous process  of  thinking  for  yourself  ?" 

"Father,  please  don't  speak  like  that.  I  cannot 
bear  satire  from  you." 

She  left  her  seat  and  knelt  beside  him.  The  ac- 
tion, so  gentle  and  dutiful,  touched  Jordan.  He  laid 
his  hand  on  her  head  and  said,  in  a  gentler  voice: 
"Well,  speak  to  me  freely.  I  will  try  to  listen 
patiently.  What  are  the  thoughts  that  trouble  you, 
Olivia?" 

"They  are  thoughts  that  have  grown  up  in  my 
heart  ever  since  you  took  me  with  you  to  hear  Mr. 
Gaunt  in  Madison  Garden,  father.  I  have  struggled 
against  them.  Oh,  believe  me,  I  have  struggled  day 
and  night,  because  I  feared  they  would  offend  you. 
But  they  have  become  too  strong  for  me.  They  rise 
out  of  myself,  they  will  not  be  denied.  That  night 
when  I  heard  Mr.  Gaunt,  I  felt  that  he  spoke  to  me, 
that  what  he  said  was  the  voice  of  my  own  soul — 
I  felt  that  I  had  never  been  truly  religious.  I  hadn't 
understood  what  it  meant.  But  then  I  knew.  It 
came  to  me  suddenly  that  the  path  he  trod  was  the 
path  of  truth.  I  tried  to  laugh  away  the  impression. 
I  heard  all  that  you  said  against  him,  but  still  his 
voice  called  me,  and  I  saw  him  beckoning  me  to 


262      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

the  path  he  trod.  There  are  some  things  which  we 
learn  from  the  inner  voice.  That  night  the  inner 
voice  spoke." 

"Well,"  said  Jordan,  "go  on.  You  have  never 
understood  religion.  Do  you  know  what  that  means 
in  relation  to  me?  I  am  not  only  your  father,  but 
your  minister.  Do  you  wish  to  tell  me  that  I  have 
failed  to  interpret  to  you  the  meaning  of  religion?" 

"No,  I  dare  not  say  that,  father." 

"Then  what  is  it  you  have  to  say?" 

"I  don't  know  how  to  put  it,  father.  It's  not  that 
you  have  not  taught  me  a  great  deal,  but  it  is  as 
though  I  had  suddenly  seen  a  fresh  light.  It's  like 
turning  a  corner  in  a  road,  all  at  once  you  get  a 
new  view  which  you  did  not  imagine  to  exist.  I 
see  now  that  religion  is  self-sacrifice  and  service. 
It's  not  thinking  about  things,  but  doing  them.  That 
is  where  it  seems  to  me  that  Gaunt  is  so  right." 

"And  I  am  so  wrong,  I  suppose  ?" 

"Father,  don't  make  me  say  that." 

"You  have  already  said  it  by  implication." 

Jordan  rose  from  his  chair,  and  began  to  pace  the 
room.  A  harder  heart  than  Olivia's  might  have 
pitied  him  in  that  moment.  His  face  had  grown 
pale  and  set,  but  it  was  less  with  anger  than  dis- 
may. He  had  lost  one  child  through  the  harshness 
of  his  temper;  was  he  to  lose  another?  A  great  fear 
clutched  his  heart.  But  it  is  characteristic  of  men 
like  Jordan  that  the  harsh  egoism  which  has  been 
the  habit  of  years  cannot  be  set  aside  even  when  it 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  263 

threatens  total  disaster.  It  must  be  gratified  at  the 
price  of  tragedy. 

For  some  moments  his  mind  wavered.  He  knew 
that  his  daughter  was  now  a  woman,  and  had  a  right 
to  her  own  opinions.  He  would  have  granted  that 
right  on  any  other  subject  but  her  approval  of  Gaunt. 
But  on  this  subject  his  mind  was  inflamed,  his  tem- 
per was  exacerbated.  He  had  made  himself  the 
public  opponent  of  Gaunt ;  what  a  position  of  ridicule 
would  he  occupy  if  his  own  daughter  should  espouse 
Gaunt's  cause !  And  at  that  thought  self-love  turned 
the  scale  in  his  contending  mind.  And  with  self-love 
came  a  gust  of  angry  pity  for  himself,  a  swift,  ago- 
nized perception  that  in  some  way  life  had  gone 
wrong  with  him,  and  would  continue  to  go  wrong. 
With  some  men  such  a  vision  might  have  proved 
corrective.  It  might  have  suggested  caution;  it 
might,  at  least,  have  been  a  warning  against  rash 
and  angry  action.  But  its  only  effect  on  Jordan 
was  to  harden  his  heart,  to  render  the  will  more 
obstinate,  to  call  forth  in  the  name  of  self-respect 
that  assertion  of  authority  which  had  already 
wrought  so  much  havoc  in  his  life. 

He  spoke  suddenly  and  sharply. 

"Olivia/'  he  said,  "let  us  understand  each  other. 
Is  there  anything  else  in  your  mind  on  this  painful 
subject  which  you  have  not  expressed?" 

"Yes,  father,  there  is." 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  want  to  join  the  League  of  Service,  father." 


264     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

"Then  understand  once  and  for  all  that  I  for- 
bid it." 

"But  why,  father?  You  cannot  deny  that  it  does 
good.  You  surely  would  not  forbid  me  doing  good 
in  a  way  that  seems  possible  to  me." 

"I  do  deny  that  it  does  good.  I  regard  the  League 
of  Service  as  ridiculous  and  fantastic,  and  Gaunt  as 
an  impostor.  I  have  taken  my  side,  and  I  will  not 
allow  myself  to  be  made  ridiculous  by  my  daughter 
taking  the  opposite  side.  You  can  find  plenty  of 
ways  of  doing  good  without  joining  Gaunt' s  fanati- 
cal movement,  if  you  wish  to.  Go,  and  work  in  any 
way  you  will ;  do  anything  you  like ;  I  will  not  com- 
plain. But  this  thing  I  forbid  you  to  do." 

Olivia  had  risen  from  her  knees  now.  She  stood 
very  straight  and  pale,  her  hands  clasped  before  her. 
Her  face  and  figure,  her  fair  hair  gathered  in  a  sim- 
ple knot,  her  clear  brown  eyes,  her  white  dress,  con- 
veyed an  indelible  impression  of  virginal  strength 
and  purity. 

"Then,  I  must  disobey  you,  father.  I  have  obeyed 
you  all  my  life,  but  here  my  obedience  must  end." 

"Olivia,  do  you  understand  what  you  are  say- 
ing?" 

"I  understand." 

"Do  yon  understand  that  if  you  join  the  League 
of  Service  you  can  no  longer  live  in  this  house?  I 
could  not  bear  that." 

"Father,  do  you  mean  that?  Say  you  do  not 
mean  it.  You  shut  your  door  once — on  Robert 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  265 

Will  you  shut  it  on  me,  too  ?  Oh,  father,  why  inflict 
such  suffering  on  yourself?" 

"Ask  yourself  who  inflicts  the  suffering.  It  is 
not  I." 

"It  is  you,  father.  I  can  live  here,  and  love  and 
care  for  you  as  I  have  always  loved  and  cared. 
What  will  it  matter  that  I  give  some  of  my  time 
to  the  service  of  the  poor?  Am  I  to  be  made  an 
outcast  for  that  ?" 

"It  does  matter.  I  tell  you  I  could  not  bear  it. 
If  you  go,  my  house  will  be  desolate;  it  will  be  made 
desolate  by  your  self-will.  But  I  could  bear  that 
better  than  to  see  you  here,  knowing  all  the  time 
that  you  were  defying  my  wishes." 

"It  is  not  self-will,  father.  Oh,  I  would  yield  to 
you  if  I  could.  But  I  am  so  sure  that  this  is  my 
path,  the  one  path  I  must  tread.  I  have  struggled 
not  to  think  so.  I  have  even  prayed  that  I  might 
think  otherwise.  But  it  is  useless — the  conviction 
has  grown  in  me  in  spite  of  myself.  And  I  cannot 
silence  the  inner  voice.  If  I  did  I  should  never 
again  be  happy,  and  I  should  have  no  right  to  happi- 
ness. I  know  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  obe- 
dience to  parents — I  have  never  been  undutiful. 
But  there  are  other  duties,  too:  duties  to  one's  self; 
duties  to  one's  own  conscience;  and  whatever  duties 
I  might  fulfil,  I  know  that  if  I  left  these  duties 
undone  I  should  be  miserable.  There  comes  a  time 
when  one  must  live  one's  own  life — it  is  such  a  little 
life;  it  is  all  we  have.  And  when  that  time  comes 


266      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

it  is  the  voice  of  one's  own  soul  that  must  be  obeyed 
— and  I  have  heard  the  voice." 

"Then  it  must  be  so.  It  appears  to  be  the  fate  of 
parents  now-a-day — at  least  it  is  my  fate — to  bring 
up  children  who  rebel  against  them." . 

"If  it  is  rebellion,  father,  it  is  the  kind  of  rebellion 
of  which  all  lovers  of  truth  have  been  guilty — all 
honest  men  and  women.  Don't  you  see  that  in  this 
matter  I  have  no  choice?  Would  not  you,  in  my 
place,  do  as  I  am  doing?  Why  do  you  press  me 
so  hard  ?  If  I  had  committed  a  crime,  you  could  not 
be  harder  on  me." 

"And  it  is  a  crime  you  are  committing,  Olivia.  A 
crime  against  common-sense.  But  go — leave  me — 
I  can  endure  no  more.  Sleep  over  it,  pray  over  it 
if  you  can — to-morrow  it  may  be  you  will  think 
differently." 

"I  cannot  think  differently  on  this  subject." 

"Then  you  know  the  consequences.  There  is 
nothing  more  to  be  said." 

Jordan  turned  and  left  the  room.  For  some  min- 
utes Olivia  stood  perfectly  silent;  then  the  relief  of 
tears  came.  She  fell  upon  her  knees  and  prayed. 
The  house  grew  very  still;  the  awe  of  midnight 
filled  it. 

What  was  her  prayer?  It  was  the  prayer  which 
the  divinest  of  all  sufferers  uttered  in  the  crisis 
of  His  fate — most  pathetic,  most  human  of  all 
prayers :  "If  it  be  possible  let  the  cup  pass  from  me ; 
but  if  not,  O  Father,  Thy  will  be  done." 


OLIVIA'S    CHOICE  267 

Olive  trees  bathed  in  Paschal  moonlight,  the 
heavy  shadows  of  the  night  in  a  deserted  garden, 
the  far-off  complaining  of  a  brook  of  tears — this  is 
the  scenery  set  for  the  world's  divinest  tragedy. 
Our  Gethsemanes,  it  may  be,  are  touched  with  no 
gleam  of  poetry;  they  are  dull  enough  to  the  casual 
eye;  they  befall  us  in  the  heart  of  cities,  within 
hearing  of  the  mirth  of  streets;  they  seem  to  exist 
for  ourselves  alone,  and  there  is  no  sustaining  and 
invigorating  sense  of  a  world  waiting  for  decision, 
of  future  ages  being  made  richer  for  our  pain.  Yet 
they  are  not  less  authentic,  and  though  we  do  not 
know  it  the  world  does  wait  tremblingly  the  issue 
of  our  struggle,  since  it  is  by  the  solitary  victory 
of  the  individual  over  self,  and  by  that  alone,  that 
the  better  future  of  the  world  is  shaped. 

Olivia  Jordan's  Gethsemane  found  her  that  night 
in  her  father's  house. 


XVIII 
THE  YOUNG   APOSTLES 

THE  summer  months  had  come,  those 
months  in  which  cities  are  supposed  to 
be  "empty,"  when  churches  are  closed, 
and  a  truce  is  called  to  their  activities.  A  brood- 
ing, stifling  heat-cloud  rested  over  New  York.  The 
nights  were  terrible — nights  when  the  lifeless  air 
made  sleep  impossible.  Far  off  in  summer  woods, 
beside  placid  lakes  or  blue  seas,  the  exiles  from  cities 
gathered  in  gay  crowds,  congratulating  themselves 
on  their  escape  from  the  brazen  furnace  of  inter- 
minable streets,  and  forgetting  the  multitudes  who 
remained  at  their  posts,  unable  to  buy  themselves 
out  of  the  cruel  conscription  of  daily  city  drudgery. 
"New  York  is  empty,"  said  the  papers;  never  was 
there  sentence  more  ironically  false. 

For  Gaunt  and  his  workers  the  summer  brought 
no  surcease  of  toil.  Day  by  day  the  League  of 
Service  sent  its  messengers  among  the  poor,  for 
there  was  much  sickness  in  the  narrow  streets  and 
airless  tenements.  Day  by  day,  also,  the  mere 
growth  of  the  movement  made  rest  impossible  for 
Gaunt.  From  every  city  of  the  Union  came  reports 
of  its  success.  Every  mail  brought  the  names  of 
new  adherents,  and  hundreds  of  requests  for  prac- 

268 


THE   YOUNG   APOSTLES         269 

tical  direction  in  the  formation  of  local  leagues. 
Gaunt  struggled  on  through  July,  grappling  with  a 
task  beyond  the  strength  of  any  dozen  men,  and 
the  end  of  the  month  found  him  pale  and  worn. 
But  if  the  flesh  proved  weak,  there  was  no  defect 
of  spirit.  His  prevailing  mood  was  one  which 
almost  approached  to  gaiety — the  indomitable  cheer- 
fulness of  one  sustained  by  the  force  of  vitalizing 
ideals.  Palmer  watched  over  him  with  more  than 
a  brother's  care,  and  noted  with  anxiety  his  grow- 
ing pallor.  At  last  one  day  Palmer  came  to  him 
with  a  new  idea. 

"Do  you  remember  the  talks  we  used  to  have 
about  the  great  religious  reformers  and  their  meth- 
ods— Wesley,  for  example?"  said  Palmer. 

"Certainly/'  said  Gaunt.  "It  was  through  those 
talks  we  came  to  the  discovery  of  our  own  path." 

"Well,  there  is  still  room  for  discovery,"  said 
Palmer. 

Gaunt  laid  down  his  pen.  He  was  sitting  at  a 
desk  loaded  with  the  morning's  mail,  rapidly  noting 
the  contents  of  each  letter,  and  dictating  brief  re- 
plies. 

"That's  right,"  said  Palmer,  "let  your  corre- 
spondence go  for  the  time,  and  let  us  talk." 

"Well,  what  have  you  to  propose — something  new 
and  daring,  I'll  be  bound,"  said  Gaunt,  with  a  smile. 

"No,  it's  not  new,  and  it's  hardly  daring.  But 
first  tell  me  whether  there  is  anything  in  the  last 
week's  mail  which  has  particularly  struck  you." 


270      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"Oh,  it's  all  striking,  for  that  matter,"  said  Gaunt. 
"It's  a  wonderful  thing  to  say,  but  out  of  a  hundred 
letters  I  seldom  find  one  that  is  commonplace.  They 
are  almost  all  intimate  expressions  of  sincere  souls. 
Most  of  the  writers  are  young." 

"Anything  else?" 

"Yes,  a  considerable  number  are  from  young 
men  of  religious  enthusiasm.  Here,  for  example,  is 
one  that  is  typical.  It's  from  a  young  minister. 
I'll  read  it  to  you. 

"DEAR  SIR:  I  do  not  know  how  any  serious  and  good  man 
can  dissent  from  the  ideas  which  control  your  work ;  I  believe 
that  all  such  men,  either  implicitly  or  explicitly,  must  agree 
with  them.  But  the  difficulty  for  me  is  the  method  of  their 
practical  application.  Let  me  put  my  own  case.  I  entered  the 
ministry  on  an  impulse  of  devout  enthusiasm  as  I  suppose 
most  men  do;  for  those  who  enter  the  ministry  with  self- 
seeking  motives  are,  I  believe,  very  few.  I  hope  I  shall  not  be 
misunderstood  when  I  say  that  the  ideal  of  the  ministry  ap- 
pealed to  the  heroic  fibre  in  me.  It  seemed  to  be  the  grandest 
of  all  earthly  vocations  to  build  up  the  living  kingdom  of  God 
among  men,  and  such  a  work  appeared  its  own  exceeding  great 
reward.  Certainly,  at  the  time  I  entered  the  ministry  I  was  in 
that  exalted  mood  to  which  any  form  of  self-sacrifice,  or  self- 
immolation,  for  an  ideal,  seems  a  positive  attraction  rather 
than  a  deterrent. 

"My  idealism  was  somewhat  rudely  handled  at  the  theo- 
logical seminary,  as  you  will  understand;  but  I  consoled 
myself  with  the  thought  that  I  was  only  in  the  position  of  the 
painter  who  finds  the  hard  technique  of  art  a  very  different 
thing  from  the  vague  dream  of  art  which  impels  his  feet  to 
the  studio  of  the  master.  At  all  events  my  idealism  survived. 
I  told  myself  that  soon  I  should  be  in  a  church,  and  there 
the  atmosphere  would  be  very  different.  Like  the  painter, 
when  once  I  had  mastered  the  difficulties  of  technique,  I 


THE    YOUNG   APOSTLES         271 

should  emerge  into  a  free  world,  where  I  could  breathe  and 
work  with  unimpeded  joy. 

"At  last  the  hour  of  my  deliverance  came.  I  was  the 
minister  of  a  church.  It  was  a  church  that  stood  high  in 
general  repute,  and  my  prospects  were  much  brighter  than 
those  of  scores  of  men  who  started  with  me.  I  entered  on  my 
work  resolved  to  build  this  living  Kingdom  of  God  among 
men,  to  preach  nothing  but  the  truth  as  the  truth  was 
revealed  to  me,  to  give  the  whole  strength  of  my  mind  and 
body  to  the  task,  to  make  religion  a  reality  in  my  own  life  and 
the  lives  of  those  committed  to  my  charge.  By  slow  degrees  it 
dawned  upon  me  that  my  church  was  out  of  sympathy  with 
ideals  which  were  the  very  breath  of  life  to  me. 

"It  was  clear,  to  begin  with,  that  my  church  did  not  want 
the  truth  in  the  sense  in  which  I  used  the  term.  They  were 
content  with  traditional  truth,  but  with  truth  in  any  living 
form  they  were  totally  unacquainted.  Certain  doctrines  or 
forms  of  words  were  to  them  symbols ;  they  were  used  to  the 
symbol,  but  the  moment  I  used  language  which  transgressed 
the  symbol  they  were  offended  or  alarmed. 

"Again,  it  was  clear  that  they  did  not  regard  religion  as 
having  any  practical  bearing  on  the  actualities  of  daily  life. 
Religion  was  for  them  a  series  of  propositions  and  assump- 
tions dealing  with  matters  which  lay  beyond  the  province  of 
the  reason.  It  was  a  romance  of  the  imagination  and  the 
emotions.  It  could  not  be  conceived  in  the  terms  of  plain 
conduct. 

"Please  do  not  think  that  I  speak  in  any  spirit  of  contempt. 
I  will  say  at  once,  and  with  the  utmost  sincerity,  that  the 
people  who  composed  my  congregation  were  almost  all  good 
and  kindly  people.  They  were  good  to  one  another  and  to  me; 
they  were  charitable  to  a  variety  of  good  causes  and  institu- 
tions; they  lived  on  excellent  terms  with  one  another.  But 
it  soon  became  clear  to  me  that  they  would  have  been  just  the 
same  kind  of  persons  without  religion  as  with  it.  Religion 
had  furnished  them  no  doubt  with  a  series  of  valuable  re- 
straints for  conduct;  but  it  had  wrought  no  vital  change  in 
their  characters.  It  was  not  an  experience;  it  was  only  an 
external  creed.  Well,  it  might  be  said,  surely  there  was 


272      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

enough  good  material  here,  in  any  case,  out  of  which  to  build 
the  Kingdom  of  God?  I  can  only  reply  that  I  found  it  other- 
wise— quite  otherwise.  For  the  very  virtues  in  which  these 
people  excelled  had  bred  in  them  an  immense  complacency. 
They  were  wholly  satisfied  with  themselves;  so  much  so  that 
they  could  conceive  of  no  need  for  improvement.  And,  being 
for  the  most  part  people  of  middle  age,  occupying  assured 
and  comfortable  positions  in  society,  they  were  equally  satisfied 
with  the  world  as  it  was.  I  do  not  like  to  say  it,  yet  it  is  true, 
they  had  been  so  long  flattered  upon  their  superiority,  that  they 
expected  flattery  from  the  pulpit,  and  became  irritated  at  the 
least  criticism.  My  predecessor,  a  very  amiable  man,  had  flat- 
tered them  for  years,  not  intentionally  or  basely,  of  course,  but 
simply  as  an  expression  of  his  own  amiability.  You  will 
understand  what  I  mean.  You  will  understand  how  the 
spirit  of  complacency  thrives  on  such  food,  until  without 
knowing  it  people  become  Pharisees,  proud  of  being  not  as 
other  men  are,  a  select  coterie  out  of  real  relation  with  life. 

"Again  and  again  I  tried  to  awaken  in  them  what  I  may 
call  a  consciousness  of  humanity.  I  sought  honestly  to  show 
them  the  world  as  it  was,  and  its  needs.  They  simply  did  not 
choose  to  see  it.  'You  want  us  to  do  this  or  that  for  the 
poor,.'  they  said.  'Well,  there  are  other  churches  to  do  that; 
it  is  not  our  work.  Why  give  us  repulsive  details  about 
poverty  and  vice?  We  come  to  church  to  be  strengthened  in 
our  faith,  not  lacerated  in  our  sympathies/  It  seemed  to  me 
a  poor  kind  of  faith  which  needed  so  much  strengthening. 
My  idea  of  a  church  was  an  army,  always  ready  to  be 
mobilized  for  active  conquest.  Their  ideal  was  a  select  club, 
existing  for  its  own  edification.  Surely  the  most  singular 
feature  in  a  democratic  country  is  an  oligarchic  church;  but 
such  is  mine,  and  such  are  most  of  the  churches  of  this  city. 
And  beside  this,  there  is  another  thing  to  be  noted.  Kindly 
as  my  people  are,  yet  they  are  absolutely  selfish  in  the  demands 
they  make  upon  their  minister.  They  require  perpetual  cod- 
dling. They  want  you  to  run  to  them  at  every  call,  and  they 
resent  your  absorption  in  public  work  if  it  interferes  with 
your  power  of  attention  to  them.  And  so  I  have  come  to  the 
melancholy  conclusion  that  the  church,  that  is  my  church,  is 


THE    YOUNG   APOSTLES         273 

only  playing  at  Christianity  after  all.  It  does  nothing;  it 
makes  no  kind  of  impact  on  the  world.  If  my  church  were 
blotted  out  by  some  catastrophe,  if  it  were  dissolved  to- 
morrow, its  loss  would  make  no  appreciable  difference  in  the 
life  of  this  city.  The  individual  members  would  be,  so  far  as 
I  can  judge,  just  as  well  off  without  religion  as  with  it,  for 
their  religion  is  little  more  than  a  social  bond.  Is  it  worth  my 
while  to  give  the  strength  of  my  manhood  simply  to  maintain 
something  that  is  so  miserably  negative  in  its  results?  I  am 
now  thirty,  the  next  twenty  years  are  everything.  But  if  I 
could  live  twice  twenty  years  in  my  present  conditions,  I 
believe  nothing  more  would  happen  than  has  already  hap- 
pened. 

"I  entered  the  ministry  with  a  brilliant  dream  of  an  on- 
ward march,  through  many  difficulties,  to  ultimate  conquest. 
My  march  has  ended  in  a  cul-de-sac. 

"Perhaps  I  am  in  error  through  pride.  I  try  to  think  of  all 
the  fine  things  which  have  been  said  about  doing  the  duty  that 
lies  nearest  to  your  hand,  and  being  content  to  make  a  few 
souls  the  happier.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  merely  the 
doctrine  of  idleness  and  a  false  humility.  If  Jesus  had  argued 
thus,  He  would  have  remained  all  His  days  in  Nazareth.  He 
certainly  would  never  have  entered  into  conflict  with  the 
Pharisees,  and  would  never  have  been  crucified. 

"What  am  I  to  do?  The  only  justification  I  can  have  for 
putting  that  question  to  you  is  that  I  regard  you  as  my 
spiritual  master.  Give  me  anything  to  do  that  will  mean 
active  conflict,  and  I  will  try  to  do  it.  I  have  the  better  part 
of  two  months  at  my  disposal  this  summer.  They  are  yours, 
if  you  can  use  them.  I  want  no  holiday.  The  best  of  all 
vacations  for  me  would  be  a  plunge  into  the  practical  realities 
of  life. 

I  am,  yours  truly, 

GEORGE  DEAN." 


"An  admirable  letter,"  said  Palmer.     "And,  as 
you  say,  quite  typical.     Its  writer  appears  to  be  a 


274     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

strong  and  observant  man,  who  feels  his  position  a 
bondage.  To  such  a  man  the  worst  of  all  tortures 
is  futility — the  sense  that,  work  how  he  will,  his 
work  ends  in  nothing." 

"It  was  my  own  torture,  as  you  know,  until  I 
found  the  way  out.  I  believe  that  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  men  in  the  ministry  to-day  who  feel  just 
as  this  man  feels." 

"And  that  brings  me  to  my  point,"  said  Palmer. 
"What  do  you  propose  to  do  with  men  of  this  kind  ? 
Here  is  a  great  force  going  to  waste;  don't  you 
think  you  can  utilize  it  ?" 

"We  certainly  ought  to  do  so.  What  is  your 
plan?" 

"My  plan  is  simple,  and,  I  believe,  practical.  You 
and  I  believe  in  evangelism  in  the  broad  sense,  don't 
we  ?  And  we  have  had  our  dream  of  various  kinds 
of  brotherhoods.  Well,  here  is  our  opportunity. 
What  we  want  is  a  revival  of  the  mediaeval  system 
of  preaching  friars.  The  press  is  all  very  well.  But 
it  can  never  supersede  the  living  voice.  It  can  never 
equal  it  as  an  agent  of  conviction.  It  is  the  impact 
of  personality  that  tells  most  in  propaganda.  Wes- 
ley knew  his  business  when  he  sent  out  his  bands  of 
workers,  who  entered  villages  and  cities  in  the  spirit 
of  conquest,  and  lived  their  truth  before  the  people 
as  well  as  taught  it.  Now  what  I  propose  is  this: 
let  us  gather  together  a  hundred  men  of  the  George 
Dean  type,  and  use  these  precious  weeks  of  summer 
by  sending  them  out,  two  and  two,  into  the  smaller 


THE    YOUNG   APOSTLES         275 

towns  to  conduct  missions,  to  rehabilitate  the  reli- 
gious sense  by  their  teaching  and  example." 

"By  outdoor  preaching,  you  mean?" 

"Certainly.  It  is  the  most  striking  method  of 
preaching,  and  it  is  the  only  way  of  reaching  masses 
of  people  who  under  no  circumstances  will  find  their 
way  into  halls  and  churches." 

"I  heard  a  famous  preacher  declare  not  long  ago," 
said  Gaunt,  with  a  laugh,  "that  the  weather  in 
America  made  outdoor  preaching  impossible." 

"What  nonsense !"  said  Palmer.  "He  should  read 
Wesley's  Journal.  Wesley  found  that  even  pouring 
rain  was  no  obstacle  to  outdoor  preaching.  But 
our  summer  weather !  Scene :  A  village  green  at  the 
close  of  an  August  day;  big,  leafy  elms;  a  soft,  cool 
wind;  every  one  out  of  doors — what  better  oppor- 
tunity do  you  want?" 

Gaunt  was  silent  a  few  moments.  Then  he  said, 
abruptly :  "We'll  do  it.  We'll  begin  with  Dean." 

The  issue  of  this  conversation  was  that  within 
less  than  a  fortnight  Gaunt  had  about  twenty  men 
at  work  upon  the  lines  sketched  by  Palmer.  They 
were  nearly  all  ministers,  and  all  young.  They 
had  all  been  accustomed  to  employ  the  summer 
months  in  sport  and  recreation.  More  than  half 
were  the  pastors  of  city  churches.  Hitherto  they 
had  taken  the  summer  months  as  their  rightful 
rest-time,  and  who  could  blame  them?  But  a  new 
spirit  had  touched  them.  The  mere  spectacle  of 
Gaunt  toiling  on  at  his  post  through  the  hottest 


276      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

weather  was  to  them  a  lesson  and  a  rebuke.  "Life 
is  too  short  for  rest,"  became  their  motto.  There 
was  all  eternity  to  rest  in. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  how  this  new  enthusiasm 
seized  upon  them.  They  were  quite  ignorant  of  the 
kind  of  work  to  which  they  were  put.  Not  one  of 
them  had  ever  spoken  in  the  open  air.  But  their 
enthusiasm  atoned  for  their  ignorance,  and  they 
soon  learned  by  experience.  They  went  in  pairs  to 
the  smaller  towns,  asking  nothing  of  the  people, 
and  night  after  night  took  their  stand  on  some  open 
green,  and  exhorted  the  people  in  plain  and  simple 
language  to  enter  on  a  life  of  holiness.  There  are 
many  who  will  never  forget  the  picture  of  such 
services  as  these :  the  silent  crowd  in  the  warm  dusk 
of  summer  evenings,  the  fireflies  weaving  skeins  of 
flame  in  the  dark  air,  the  soft  passage  of  the  wind 
in  the  high  trees,  the  melody  of  some  familiar  hymn 
and  some  fresh  young  voice,  pleading  for  the  noblest 
ideals  of  life  with  beautiful  sincerity  and  sometimes 
with  prophetic  fire. 

For  these  young  apostles  it  was  a  Galilean  idyll,  a 
passage  of  poetry.  It  was  all  so  different  from 
preaching  in  churches,  where  every  word  was  an- 
ticipated and  was  received  with  languor  or  indif- 
ference. 

"The  sermon-saturated  pagans  of  the  pews"  was 
a  phrase  which  Gaunt  had  once  used  about  the 
customary  church  audience,  and  perhaps  that  phrase 
explained  the  difference.  For  in  these  open-air 


THE   YOUNG   APOSTLES        277 

audiences  there  was  a  receptivity  to  ideas  altogether 
new  and  delightful  to  men  of  the  George  Dean  type. 
The  people  who  assembled  came  together  not  in 
obedience  to  custom,  but  on  a  living  volition.  If 
they  listened  it  was  because  there  was  that  which 
interested  them;  and  they  were  free  to  leave  when 
the  preacher  ceased  to  interest  them.  Hence  there 
was  a  vital  sincerity  in  these  meetings  which  is 
rarely  found  in  churches.  And  this  reacted  on  the 
speakers  themselves.  They  lost  the  professional 
element,  the  professional  preaching  voice;  they  soon 
learned  to  speak  simply  as  men  to  men.  They  found 
that  phrases  could  not  take  the  place  of  thoughts. 
They  had  to  use  the  plain  and  definite  language  of 
the  common  people.  And  they  found  that,  having 
now  a  definite  aim  before  them,  they  achieved  defi- 
nite results.  Scores  of  people,  often  hundreds, 
pressed  forward  to  enrol  themselves  in  the  League, 
after  each  service. 

Perhaps  nothing  contributed  more  to  the  success 
of  this  movement  than  the  obvious  disinterestedness 
of  its  apostles.  The  mere  fact  that  they  asked 
nothing  from  the  people  made  a  deep  and  good 
impression. 

"What  are  you  doing  it  for?"  asked  a  reporter, 
bluntly,  of  George  Dean. 

"Because  we  love  to  do  it,"  he  replied. 

"But  who  pays  you?" 

"We  are  not  paid.  It  is  just  our  way  of  taking 
a  vacation." 


278      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"I  never  met  any  one  who  preached  without  be- 
ing paid  for  it  before,"  he  replied. 

"Our  pay  is  the  love  of  the  people,"  Dean 
replied. 

The  reporter  went  away,  greatly  wondering. 

"It  seems  like  a  bit  out  of  the  Gospels,"  he  wrote 
in  his  story  of  the  interview,  for  he  was  a  youth 
who  had  once  read  his  Bible,  and  had  only  ceased 
to  read  it  because  he  found  no  one  who  practised 
its  teachings. 

And  the  chance  phrase  was  true :  it  was  the  same 
message  of  conquering  love  which  was  spoken  to 
these  hushed  crowds  that  was  spoken  long  since 
beside  the  shores  of  Galilee,  and  the  same  summer 
stars  watched  the  scene. 

Toward  the  end  of  August  Gaunt  himself  joined 
his  itinerant  apostles.  At  the  request  of  George 
Dean,  Gaunt  came  to  Dean's  own  city  and  began 
open-air  preaching. 

It  was  a  prosperous  city  in  New  York  State,  one 
of  the  earliest  Dutch  settlements,  which  still  bore 
that  aspect  of  solidity  and  sobriety  which  the  Dutch 
have  left  everywhere  upon  their  handiwork.  Old, 
red-brick  houses  with  gardens  sloping  to  the  river; 
narrow  streets  with  venerable  elms;  sleepy  comfort; 
decorous  restfulness — -such  was  the  older  city,  in 
which  men  had  walked  who  had  left  records  in  the 
history  of  Indian  massacres  and  martyrdom.  But 
of  late  years  another  city  had  grown  up,  throbbing 
with  commercial  enterprise,  a  city  of  vast  factories, 


THE    YOUNG   APOSTLES         279 

filled  with  a  multitude  of  toilers.  In  the  very  centre 
of  the  city  rose  a  green  hill,  with  pleasant  shade 
trees,  and  this  hill  Gaunt  selected  for  his  preaching. 
His  fame  had  preceded  him,  and  an  immense  multi- 
tude gathered  to  hear  him;  and  there  night  after 
night  he  stood,  taking  a  delight  in  this  unconven- 
tional preaching  which  he  had  never  known  within 
the  decorous  walls  of  churches.  And  simply  be- 
cause all  the  richer  people  were  far  away  in  the 
places  of  pleasure,  his  congregation  consisted  in  the 
main  of  the  poorer  folk,  to  whom  August  brought 
scant  relief  from  labour.  And  not  only  the  poorer 
folk  came,  but  the  socially  outcast.  At  the  sound 
of  the  nightly  singing  the  saloons  emptied,  and  men 
and  women  of  wrecked  hopes  drew  near,  and  hung 
upon  his  words. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  one  of  the  addresses  that  an 
anxious-looking  woman  came  to  Gaunt  with  a  re- 
quest that  he  would  come  at  once  to  her  house  to 
visit  a  lodger  who  was  ill.  Gaunt  went  with  her. 
The  house  was  a  dilapidated  frame  house  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  city,  and  the  interior,  not  less  than 
the  exterior,  bore  the  marks  of  poverty.  The  stair- 
case was  worn  and  dirty,  the  paint  dull  and  defaced, 
and  the  room  in  which  the  lodger  lay  was  a  dark 
room  with  little  furniture.  The  lodger  was  a  young 
man  of  athletic  frame.  He  lay  with  one  arm  be- 
neath his  head,  the  wet  hair  falling  over  a  high 
forehead,  the  eyes  closed,  the  face  unshaven  and 
flushed  with  fever.  Gaunt  looked  at  him  keenly, 


280      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

troubled  by  some  fugitive  recollection  of  the  face, 
which  instantly  escaped  him. 

"What  was  his  name?"  he  asked. 

"He  gave  the  name  of  Smith,"  the  woman  replied. 

"How  long  has  he  been  here  ?" 

"About  two  months." 

She  then  went  on  to  tell  all  that  she  knew  or 
suspected  about  the  sick  man.  He  had  some  posi- 
tion in  the  great  electric  works  of  the  city,  she  did 
not  know  what,  but  he  had  lost  it  when  he  became 
ilL  He  was  very  well  spoken;  college-bred,  she 
imagined.  He  was  kind-hearted,  brought  her  chil- 
dren little  presents,  but  he  never  went  to  church. 

"He  told  me  once  he  didn't  hold  with  church.  I 
told  him  that  was  a  pity,  for  it  was  better  anyway  to 
go  to  church  Sundays  than  get  too  much  to  drink, 
which  he  sometimes  did.  Not  that  he  was  really 
bad  and  wild,  and  that  sort  of  thing.  But  he  seemed 
one  as  had  had  a  trouble  sometime,  and  when  he  got 
thinking  of  it,  he'd  go  to  the  drink.  Somehow  I 
don't  think  he  gave  me  the  right  name.  He  called 
himself  Smith,  but  I  noticed  that  some  of  his 
clothes  were  marked  with  a  J." 

Gaunt  stooped  yet  more  closely  over  the  flushed, 
unconscious  face,  trying  to  recover  that  fugitive  like- 
ness which  met  him  there.  Then  all  at  once  there 
came  to  him  the  memory  of  Olivia  Jordan,  and  with 
it  the  sudden  conviction  that  this  was  her  brother. 
He  had  never  seen  the  lad  in  his  father's  house  but 
once.  That  was  years  ago.  And  he  had  never 


THE   £oUNG   APOSTLES         281 

known  what  had  happened  to  him,  except  that  he 
had  left  home.  Olivia,  in  the  various  talks  which 
he  had  had  with  her  since  she  had  joined  the  Sister- 
hood of  helpers  of  the  poor,  had  never  alluded  to 
her  brother.  And  yet  now  there  came  to  him,  with 
that  strange  rekindling  of  past  scenes  which  may 
well  lead  us  to  believe  that  nothing  once  seen  or 
known  is  really  forgotten,  the  clear  picture  of  young 
Robert  Jordan  as  he  had  once  seen  him,  and  he  felt 
sure  that  this  sick  man  was  he. 

He  looked  round  the  room  for  some  means  of 
identification.  Presently  he  perceived  a  little  row 
of  books,  and  among  them  a  college  Virgil.  He 
opened  it,  and  found,  as  he  expected,  the  name  of 
Robert  Jordan  written  in  the  flyleaf. 

That  night  he  wrote  to  Olivia  Jordan  a  full  ac- 
count of  his  visit.  By  the  next  mail  came  a  reply, 
saying,  briefly :  "Don't  say  a  word  to  father  at  pres- 
ent. I  will  come." 

Olivia  came  and  at  once  took  charge  of  the  sick 
man.  Day  by  day  she  and  Gaunt  ministered  to- 
gether to  him,  until  the  time  came  for  Gaunt  to  go 
to  another  city.  He  left,  promising  to  return  in  a 
week,  when  they  would  consult  upon  what  might 
be  done  for  the  poor  fellow,  who  was  slowly  find- 
ing his  way  back  to  the  life  he  had  found  so  bitter. 

On  the  day  that  Gaunt  left  he  woke  to  conscious- 
ness for  a  moment.  He  said  "Olivia"  in  a  low, 
awed  voice,  and  instantly  slid  back  again  into  the 
phantom  fever-world. 


282      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"He  will  live  now/'  said  Gaunt.  "Please  God, 
you  and  I  will  see  a  prodigal  son  come  home." 

"The  trouble  is  not  with  the  prodigal  son,  but  the 
prodigal  father,"  said  Olivia,  bitterly.  "I  wonder 
whether  every  prodigal  child  has  not  something  to 
blame  the  father  for." 

"Hush!"  said  Gaunt.  "You  must  not  indulge 
those  thoughts,  Olivia.  If  your  father  still  loves 
his  boy,  as  I  am  sure  he  does,  love  will  prove 
stronger  than  either  pride  or  anger." 

"I  pray  for  that,  but  I  cannot  hope  it,"  said 
Olivia. 

"Perhaps  the  noblest  kind  of  prayer  is  that  which 
has  least  of  hope  in  it,"  replied  Gaunt.  "The  great- 
est of  all  recorded  prayers  is,  'I  believe,  help  Thou 
my  unbelief.'  To  go  on  asking  when  we  expect 
to  receive  nothing  is  a  much  greater  thing  than  to 
ask  expecting  to  receive." 

"Isn't  that  a  most  heretical  saying?"  she  replied, 
with  a  sad  smile. 

"It  is,  at  all  events,  the  kind  of  heresy  which  helps 
men  to  endure,"  said  Gaunt. 

And  with  that  word  he  left  her. 


XIX 

BUTLER'S   INQUISITION 

GAUNT  did  not  return  to  Olivia  and  her 
brother  as  he  had  intended;  he  was  re- 
called to  New  York  by  an  urgent  letter 
from   Butler.      This   letter   discussed   certain   new 
developments  of  the  League,  which  may  now  be 
briefly  described. 

In  six  months  the  League  had  enrolled  close  upon 
two  hundred  thousand  members.  Its  success  had 
thus  been  instantaneous  and  beyond  expectation. 
Each  member  had  contributed  the  dollar  asked  in 
annual  subscription,  so  that  there  was  now  ample 
means  for  the  prosecution  of  the  work.  It  was  this 
fund  that  sent  out  the  young  Apostles,  which 
equipped  certain  mission  halls  in  the  poorer  districts 
of  New  York,  and  which  maintained  the  Sisters  of 
the  Poor — a  group  of  noble  women,  of  whom  Olivia 
Jordan  was  one — who  gave  six  hours  of  each  day  to 
every  form  of  personal  service  among  the  destitute. 
The  badge  of  the  Cross  of  Stars  had  become  familiar 
in  New  York. 

But  both  Gaunt  and  Butler  had  seen  for  a  long 
time  that  all  this  social  work,  excellent  as  it  was, 
was  remedial  not  radical.  They  knew  that  they 

283 


284     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

were  dealing  with  the  results  of  wrong,  not  with  the 
causes.  During  all  these  months  Butler  had  been 
conducting  a  quiet  but  thorough  campaign  of  in- 
vestigation into  the  causes  of  social  misery.  By  the 
end  of  the  summer  his  investigation  was  complete, 
and  hence  his  letter  to  Gaunt. 

It  was  an  exquisite  September  morning  when 
Gaunt  returned  to  New  York.  As  he  looked  upon 
the  city,  bathed  in  the  fresh  gold  of  the  dawn,  he 
felt  something  of  that  thrill  which  the  provincial 
felt  twenty  centuries  ago  when  he  saw  the  white 
wonder  of  Nero's  palace  flash  across  the  Tiber, 
which  the  Gascon  feels  when  he  approaches  Paris, 
the  dweller  among  pastured  stillness  feels  when  he 
beholds  the  vast  disarray  of  London.  No  wonder 
men  were  intoxicated  with  the  charm  of  great  cities. 
No  wonder  that  they  inspired  a  sense  of  limitless 
freedom,  in  which  the  irksome  bonds  of  personal 
responsibility  seemed  dissolved.  Beneath  broad 
and  empty  skies,  in  the  open  places  of  the  world,  it 
was  natural  that  men  should  realize  the  presence  of 
unknown  powers — that  they  should  quiver  with 
spiritual  apprehension,  that  they  should  seek  to 
reconcile  their  conduct  to  invisible  and  awful  stand- 
ards ;  men  had  always  built  their  altars  in  the  silent 
groves  and  on  the  bare  mountain  tops.  But  here 
all  was  human,  palpable,  the  work  of  men's  hands. 
In  these  immense  highways  of  houses,  these  streets 
echoing  with  wheels  above,  and  veined  with  fire  and 
speed  below,  in  this  incessant  march  of  life,  as  of  an 


BUTLER'S    INQUISITION        285 

endless  pageant,  perpetually  renewed,  there  was  no 
breathing  space  for  individual  life.  The  individual 
was  overwhelmed  in  the  mass.  And  hence  the 
perilous  exhilaration — the  sense  that  nothing  mat- 
tered, neither  duty  nor  piety ;  that  men  could  be  and 
do  as  they  willed,  and  that  no  higher  Power  watched 
or  cared.  What  was  the  individual  but  a  pebble 
carried  outward  by  a  great  torrent,  that  wore  it 
down  into  a  shape  common  to  a  million  neighbour 
pebbles?  And  Gaunt,  fresh  from  those  great  out- 
door audiences  in  small  cities,  with  their  receptivity 
to  ideas,  felt  anew  how  little  there  was  to  hold  to  in 
these  millionfold  personalities  ground  smooth  in  the 
attrition  of  New  York — how  in  the  very  nature  of 
things  men  in  such  conditions  became  subdued  to 
the  element  of  greed  and  lust  and  wrong  in  which 
they  worked. 

"God  help  me,"  he  prayed  silently,  as  the  cab 
speeded  along  Fifth  Avenue  and  Broadway.  "It  is 
in  the  city  that  my  problem  lies,  my  battlefield ;  for 
it  is  in  cities  that  the  whole  corruption  of  mankind 
begins." 

It  was  still  early  dawn  when  Gaunt  reached 
Washington  Square  and  the  House  of  Joy,  but  the 
household  was  already  astir  and  at  work.  Palmer 
met  him  with  a  shout  of  welcome. 

"And  so  you've  had  a  great  time,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  thanks  to  you.  I  feel  as  though  I  had  never 
learned  how  to  preach  till  now.  Next  summer  we'll 
put  five  hundred  men  in  the  field." 


286      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"How  about  Olivia  Jordan?"  said  Palmer.  He 
flushed  slightly  as  he  uttered  the  name. 

"I  left  her  nursing  her  brother.  He's  doing  well, 
but  it  will  probably  be  some  weeks  before  he  is  quite 
recovered." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  must  see  what  I  can  do  with  Jordan." 

"If  the  father  were  only  like  the  daughter,"  said 
Palmer.  Then  he  added  abruptly,  "You  know  I've 
seen  a  good  deal  of  Olivia  Jordan  since  she  joined 
the  Sisterhood.  She's  the  best  worker  we  have. 
There's  something  about  her,  she  has  such  a  gentle 
way  with  her,  that  the  roughest  people  love  her,  and 
I  know  some  who  almost  worship  her." 

"And  you?"  said  Gaunt,  with  a  humorous  glance 
at  his  friend. 

"Oh,  I'm  no  exception,"  he  said,  gravely. 

Butler  entered  at  that  moment.  The  great  editor 
looked  worn  and  weary.  Usually  he  had  spent 
August  in  his  little  house  on  Long  Island,  but  this 
year  he  had  not  been  there  for  more  than  a  few 
days. 

"You  look  tired,"  said  Gaunt. 

"Oh,  I've  no  time  to  be  tired,"  he  replied.  "I 
believe  I'm  made  on  the  principle  of  the  wonderful 
One-horse  Shay :  when  I  go  to  pieces  it  will  be  all  at 
once,  and  all  together." 

Gaunt  hastily  swallowed  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  fol- 
lowed the  two  men  into  the  quiet  room  at  the  back 
of  the  house  which  served  him  for  an  office. 


BUTLER'S    INQUISITION        287 

"And  now/'  said  Butler,  "let  us  get  to  work. 
First  of  all  you'll  be  interested  to  hear  that  while 
you've  been  away  I  have  refused  a  donation  of  fifty 
thousand  dollars  from  William  Stonecroft." 

"Stonecroft?  What  made  him  offer  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars  ?"  said  Gaunt. 

"An  uneasy  conscience/'  said  Butler,  drily. 
"We've  grown  powerful  enough  to  be  offered  bribes. 
However,  that's  an  incident,"  he  added,  "though  it 
has  its  significance,  I  should  have  refused  in  any 
case,  because  our  principle  is  that  this  is  a  people's 
movement,  which  must  be  supported  by  the  people." 

"Isn't  Stonecroft  a  member  of  Jordan's  church  ?" 
asked  Palmer. 

"He  is.  That  is  where  the  significance  lies.  Now 
let  me  tell  you  all  I  have  ascertained  about  Stone- 
croft, and  you  may  take  his  case  as  typical  of  the 
kind  of  problem  we  have  now  to  face.  He  is  a 
member  of  Jordan's  church:  good.  Jordan  would 
no  doubt  tell  you  that  he  is  an  exemplary  member. 
Certainly  he  gives  largely  to  all  church  purposes, 
and  is  a  regular  attendant  at  worship.  The  man  is 
charitable,  and  if  you  met  him  you  would  be  charmed 
with  his  kindly  manners.  Now  for  the  other  side. 
He  has  a  large  dry-goods  store,  as  you  know,  and 
employs  a  great  number  of  girls.  The  other  day  a 
young  girl  of  my  acquaintance,  a  beautiful,  well- 
educated  girl  whose  father  had  been  unfortunate 
in  business,  applied  at  his  store  for  a  situation.  It 
was  a  last  resource.  She  had  been  brought  up  in 


288      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

the  lap  of  wealth.  When  reverses  came  she  resolved 
instantly  to  work  for  her  living,  and  knowing  Stone- 
croft's  reputation  as  a  religious  man,  applied  at  his 
store  for  a  situation.  The  manager  met  her  with 
compliments.  Yes :  he  could  give  her  a  situation  at 
once.  He  then  offered  her  five  dollars  a  week. 

"  'But/  she  said,  in  alarm,  'I  couldn't  possibly  live 
upon  that.' 

"  'Well/  he  replied,  with  a  brutal  smile,  'you  can 
take  a  companion ;  all  the  girls  do/ 

"She  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  not  in  the  least 
comprehending  what  he  meant.  The  man  con- 
tinued smiling,  and  the  smile  at  last  enlightened  her. 
She  burst  into  tears,  and,  hot  with  shame,  left  the 
store. 

"That's  count  one  against  Stonecroft.  He  pays 
his  girls  wages  on  which  they  cannot  live  virtuously, 
and  he  knows  it.  Probably,  however,  he  never 
thinks  of  it.  He  has  long  ago  become  blind  to  the 
sources  of  his  wealth. 

"Count  two,  is  that  he  is  the  proprietor  of 
some  of  the  worst  house  property  in  New  York. 
Some  of  his  houses  are  used  for  immoral  purposes. 
Again,  I  say,  that  though  he  must  know  this,  yet 
he  probably  never  thinks  of  it.  No  doubt  some 
agent  manages  his  property  for  him,  and  he  takes 
his  money  without  scruple." 

"You  are  quite  sure  of  these  things?"  said  Gaunt. 

"Absolutely,"  replied  Butler.  "I  can  give  you  the 
exact  facts  not  only  about  Stonecroft,  but  about  a 


BUTLER'S    INQUISITION        289 

dozen  other  men  in  similar  positions.  You'll  find  all 
the  details  in  my  portfolio." 

"Well,  what  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"That  is  what  I  am  coming  to.  But  first  let  us 
understand  the  problem.  You  and  the  rest  of  us  are 
all  busy  in  saving  lost  people.  Has  it  never  struck 
you  that  such  work  is  like  baling  out  a  pool,  while 
the  river  still  runs  into  it?  We  have  to  begin 
further  up  in  the  sources  of  the  river.  It  is  men  like 
Stonecroft  who  manufacture  the  misery  we  are  try- 
ing to  heal.  Of  course  that  is  obvious.  But  the 
question  is  how  to  touch  men  like  Stonecroft. 
They  present  the  most  extraordinary  psychological 
problem  of  modern  society.  They  go  to  church, 
they  are  charitable,  they  are  pious — yes,  I  grant  that 
— I  don't  believe  Stonecroft  is  a  conscious  hypocrite. 
For  that  matter  I  don't  believe  any  one  is — the  worst 
man  probably  appears  quite  a  decent  fellow  to  him- 
self, even  when  he  is  doing  his  worst  actions.  The 
root  of  the  whole  anomaly  is  that  men  like  Stone- 
croft have  never  really  learned  to  apply  religion  to 
common  life.  Their  natures  are  built  in  water-tight 
compartments — in  one  religion,  in  another  business 
greed — Sunday  feelings  in  one,  week-day  cuteness  in 
another — and  the  Sunday  man  is  quite  a  separate 
person  from  the  week-day.  And  the  society  in 
which  they  move  is  composed  of  persons  of  the  same 
order.  So  it  happens  that  no  one  blames  them,  and 
naturally  they  themselves  are  the  last  persons  to 
recognize  the  inconsistencies  in  their  own  position." 


290      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"I  suppose  it  is  no  use  to  suggest  the  law?"  said 
Gaunt 

"None  whatever.     Palmer  knows  that." 

"Yes,"  said  Palmer.  "I  have  reason  to  know. 
It  is  not  that  there  isn't  law  enough  to  touch  men 
like  Stonecroft,  but  that  you  can't  get  it  enforced. 
The  trouble  all  through  America  is  that  the  law  is  in 
advance  of  public  opinion.  The  good  people  make 
good  laws,  the  ordinary  people  forget  them,  and  the 
bad  people  defy  them.  The  result  is  that  there  is 
a  compromise  all  round.  The  compromise  means 
that  any  one  who  is  strong  enough  and  wealthy 
enough  can  buy  immunity  from  the  law." 

"Yes,  that  is  about  the  truth,"  said  Butler.  "You 
may  take  it  as  certain  that  you  can't  touch  Stone- 
croft  by  any  process  of  law.  But  there  is  one 
weapon  that  can  touch  him.  That  is  publicity.  If 
he  was  a  genuinely  bad  man  that  weapon  would  be 
useless  too;  but  he  isn't  a  bad  man.  He's  good  in 
spots.  He  really  values  his  religious  reputation. 
It  is,  therefore,  through  his  religious  reputation  that 
I  propose  to  touch  him." 

Butler  opened  his  portfolio,  and  laid  a  mass  of 
carefully  docketed  papers  upon  the  table. 

"I  have  here,"  he  said,  "details,  about  a  dozen  men, 
of  whom  Stonecroft  is  one.  They  are  all  leading 
members  of  New  York  churches — and  by-the-bye, 
Gaunt,  one  of  them  is  your  friend  Roberts.  He's 
not  a  very  bad  case,  not  nearly  so  bad  as  the  rest; 
but  he's  bad  enough  to  be  noticeable.  He  also  has 


BUTLER'S    INQUISITION        291 

been  deriving  part  of  his  income  from  some  of  the 
worst  property  in  New  York.  Well,  what  I  propose 
to  do  is  this.  First  of  all  I  shall  send  to  each  of 
these  men  a  detailed  statement  of  all  that  we  know 
about  them.  The  statement  will  be  too  accurate  to 
admit  of  any  dispute — I  have  taken  care  of  that. 
I  shall  demand  that  they  at  once  do  the  right  thing. 
This  gives  them  a  chance.  If  they  don't  take  it  I 
shall  then  begin  the  publication  of  a  Black  List  in 
The  Daily  Light.  I  shall  publish  their  names,  the 
sources  of  their  income,  the  sworn  witness  of  those 
who  have  suffered  by  them,  and  I  shall  continue  to 
attack  them  till  public  opinion  forces  them  to  re- 
form. Of  course,  this  is  an  extreme  measure,  but  I 
think  it  will  be  effectual." 

"What  about  libel?''  suggested  Gaunt. 

"Oh,  they  won't  dare  to  prosecute.  They'll  be 
too  much  afraid  of  the  exposure.  You  only  have  to 
remember  half  a  dozen  recent  exposures  of  the  same 
kind  in  commercial  life.  In  each  case  the  accused 
parties  remained  absolutely  silent.  Men  of  this 
kind  will  suffer  almost  any  kind  of  defamation 
rather  than  face  cross-examination  in  the  witness- 
box." 

Butler  rose  from  his  seat,  and  began  to  pace  up 
and  down  the  room. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said.  "I  believe  I've  got  nervous 
these  weeks.  I  can't  sit  still  for  long  together.  You 
see  I've  had  to  work  far  into  the  night  to  put  this 
business  through  in  addition  to  my  other  work. 


292      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

And  night  in  New  York  has  been  very  like  hell  for 
the  last  month." 

"And  I  have  been  having  such  a  good  time,"  said 
Gaunt,  contritely. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you've  worked  in  your  way,  I 
in  mine.  You  couldn't  have  done  my  work  and  I 
couldn't  have  done  yours.  Let  us  each  be  content 
with  Browning's  famous  line, 

"All  service  ranks  the  same  with  God." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Butler 
broke  out  passionately:  "It's  been  a  horrible  piece 
of  work.  Good  God,  it  makes  me  sick  to  think  of 
it !  Gaunt,  how  is  it  that  a  church  which  is  founded 
on  the  example  of  the  most  just  and  pitiful  life  that 
was  ever  lived  can  have  become  the  refuge — nay 
more,  the  peculiar  property — of  men  like  Stone- 
croft!  For  that  is  what  it  really  means.  These 
rich  men  have  bought  the  Church.  They  have 
bought  the  ministry.  And  the  process  has  been  so 
silent  and  so  subtle  that  neither  the  Church  nor  the 
ministry  is  aware  of  its  own  corruption." 

"It  can  only  be  that  the  ministry  has  failed  in 
honesty,"  said  Gaunt,  sacly. 

"It's  worse  than  failure.  It's  betrayal,"  said 
Butler.  "I  know  as  much  as  most  men  of  the  proc- 
esses of  corruption  in  the  national  life.  I  know, 
we  all  know,  that  the  unscrupulous  rich  buy  the 
railroads,  buy  the  senate,  buy  the  law;  but  I  con- 
fess to  a  sickening  sense  of  horror  at  the  knowledge 
I  now  have  that  they  have  bought  the  Church.  And 


BUTLER'S    INQUISITION        293 

they  have  done  it  with  a  diabolical  adroitness.  You 
won't  find  a  single  man  in  Jordan's  church  who  will 
say  a  word  against  Stonecroft.  One  year  he  gives 
the  church  a  new  organ,  another  he  subscribes  ten 
thousand  dollars  towards  a  new  parish  house. 
Does  Jordan  need  a  holiday?  Stonecroft  in  the 
kindliest  and  most  delicate  manner  gives  him  a 
cheque  and  sends  him  off  to  Europe.  Is  some  one 
overtaken  with  misfortune?  Stonecroft  comes 
down  with  an  ample  donation.  Does  a  young  man 
want  a  situation  ?  Stonecroft  procures  one  for  him. 
Every  one  is  soon  under  obligation  to  him,  and  pray 
who  is  going  to  enquire  into  the  sources  of  his 
wealth  when  he  uses  it  so  generously?  Why,  I 
wouldn't  trust  myself  to  be  honest  in  such  an  atmos- 
phere. I  believe  that  I  should  be  corrupted  with  the 
rest.  It  would  soon  seem  as  if  mere  gratitude  made 
criticism  impossible." 

Butler  continued  walking  up  and  down  with  angry 
strides.  Presently  he  resumed:  "But  let  that  pass. 
Here's  the  case  as  I  see  it.  Things  have  gone  so  far 
that  it  is  useless  to  expect  ministers  to  recognize  the 
situation.  I  can't  blame  them ;  they've  grown  up  in 
the  environment,  and  are  mastered  by  it.  When- 
ever a  mininster  does  recognize  the  situation  and 
speak  out,  he  has  to  go.  I  know  a  great  Western 
city  where  half  a  dozen  ministers  have  been  driven 
from  their  pastorates  in  the  last  half  a  dozen  years, 
for  no  other  reason  than  that  they,  for  righteous- 
ness' sake,  put  themselves  into  opposition  against  the 


294      A    PROPHET    IN   BABYLON 

rich  men  of  their  churches.  No;  the  individual 
minister  is  not  strong  enough  to  fight  this  battle 
alone.  Therefore  we  must  help  him.  I  propose  to 
re-establish  the  Inquisition." 

Gaunt  and  Palmer  both  laughed  at  this  climax, 
and  even  Butler's  lips  relaxed  in  a  grim  smile. 

"Oh,  the  Inquisition  was  an  excellent  thing,  if  it 
had  only  been  properly  conducted,"  said  Butler. 
"My  Inquisition  will  be  conducted  on  strictly 
modern  principles.  I  can  get  on  quite  well  without 
tortures  and  burnings;  publicity  will  serve  my  pur- 
pose. I  shall  begin  my  operations  with  Stonecroft, 
and  if  I  don't  mistake  that  is  his  hand  upon  the 
door-bell.  I  have  summoned  him  to  be  present  here 
at  nine  o'clock." 

The  words  were  scarcely  spoken  before  William 
Stonecroft  entered  the  room.  He  was  a  tall  elderly 
man,  fresh-complexioned,  inclined  to  stoutness, 
immaculately  dressed  in  light  summer  costume.  His 
manner  was  genial,  kindly,  almost  fatherly.  He 
might  have  stood  for  the  portrait  of  a  model  philan- 
thropist. 

"Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  radiated  good-will  and  sincerity.  "Ah,  Mr. 
Gaunt,  I'm  pleased  to  know  you,  sir.  I've  followed 
your  work  with  the  greatest  interest.  It's  a  wonder- 
ful work.  I  would  have  been  glad  to  subscribe  to  it, 
but  I  understand  from  Mr.  Butler  that  it  is  one  of 
your  principles  not  to  receive  large  donations.  A 
mistaken  principle,  I  think :  for  why  should  the  rich 


BUTLER'S    INQUISITION        295 

be  debarred  from  helping  in  such  a  good  work? 
Eh?" 

"If  you  will  sit  down,  Mr.  Stonecroft,  I  will  try  to 
answer  your  question,"  said  Butler,  quietly.  "It 
was  because  I  wanted  to  discuss  the  whole  matter 
with  you,  that  I  ventured  to  ask  you  to  meet  us  here 
this  morning." 

"I  shall  be  extremely  pleased  to  know  your 
views,"  said  Stonecroft.  "I  have  about  an  hour  to 
spare — not  more,  for  I  live  very  little  in  New  York 
now.  I  prefer  the  country." 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  you  live  so  little  in  New 
York  now  that  you  are  not  quite  aware  of  certain 
things  which  are  done  by  your  authority,"  said  But- 
ler. "If  you  will  allow  me  to  speak  for  just  ten 
minutes  without  interruption,  I  think  I  can  make 
quite  clear  to  you  what  I  mean." 

A  shadow  of  apprehension  passed  over  Stone- 
croft's  face,  but  his  manner  still  remained  genial. 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "I  shall  always  value  the 
opportunity  of  hearing  a  person  of  Mr.  Butler's 
eminence  speak  on  any  subject  in  which  he  is 
interested." 

Butler  took  from  his  portfolio  a  bundle  of  papers, 
and  having  carefully  arranged  them  for  easy  refer- 
ence, at  once  began  to  speak.  He  gave  full  details 
of  the  condition  and  uses  of  the  house  property 
which  Stonecroft  owned.  Some  of  it  was  almost 
ruinous,  without  decent  conveniences,  crowded  by 
the  poor,  who  nevertheless  paid  exorbitant  rentals. 


296      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

Some  of  it  was  rented  for  immoral  purposes,  at  yet 
higher  rates.  He  gave  chapter  and  verse,  the  names 
of  tenants,  the  amount  of  rent  paid  in  each  instance. 
He  then  passed  on  to  the  management  of  Stone- 
croft's  huge  store.  He  gave  the  story  of  the  girl 
and  her  interview  with  the  manager,  as  he  had 
already  given  it  to  Gaunt  and  Palmer.  He  sup- 
plemented it  with  similar  facts.  He  closed  his  ar- 
raignment with  one  brief  sentence.  "What  do  you 
mean  to  do  about  it?  Here  is  vice  in  the  process 
of  manufacture,"  he  said.  "It  may  be  that  person- 
ally you  know  little  of  what  is  going  on  under  your 
name.  But  you  are  the  richer  by  what  is  done. 
You  are  responsible.  While  we  try  to  remedy 
wrong,  you  produce  it.  If  there  were  no  other 
reason  for  refusing  your  donation,  this  is  enough. 
And  so  again,  Mr.  Stonecroft,  I  ask  you,  what  do 
you  mean  to  do  about  it?" 

As  he  spoke  the  colour  left  Stonecroft's  face. 
He  looked  ten  years  older.  The  moment  Butler 
finished,  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"By  what  right,"  he  cried,  "do  you  interfere  in 
my  private  affairs  ?" 

"By  the  right  of  Christian  justice.  And  because 
no  affairs  are  private  which  involve  the  lives  of 
other  people." 

"I  deny  the  right,  all  the  same,"  he  retorted. 

"Oh,  let  the  question  of  right  go,  if  you  like.  My 
only  urgent  question  is  what  do  you  intend  to  do 
about  it?" 


BUTLER'S   INQUISITION       297 

"What  do  you?"  said  Stonecroft. 

"I  want  to  give  you  the  opportunity  of  putting 
things  right.  I  want  you  to  look  to  the  condition  of 
your  house  property.  I  want  you  to  pay  the  girls 
in  your  employ  wages  sufficient  to  maintain  them  in 
self-respect.  You  are  rich  enough  to  do  these 
things.  You  believe  yourself  a  Christian  man,  and 
therefore  you  ought  to  do  them." 

"But,  man,  you  don't  know  what  you  ask.  I  can't 
pay  more  than  the  current  rate  of  wages.  No 
wealth  could  stand  the  strain  of  such  a  reform  as 
you  ask.  And  if  I  sold  my  houses  who  would  be 
the  better  ?  They  would  be  bought  by  some  one  else 
who  would  prove  a  harsher  landlord  than  I." 

"Surely  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  is 
your  duty  we  are  discussing,  not  the  duty  of  other 
people." 

"Then  I  say  flatly,  I  can't  do  it.  You  are  asking 
the  impossible." 

"Right  is  never  impossible.  It  may  be  difficult, 
but  it  is  not  impossible.  Mr.  Stonecroft,  do  you 
realize  that  ever  dollar  bill  you  have  in  your  pocket  is 
stained  with  the  blood  of  innocence,  that  your  yacht 
is  paid  for  by  the  price  of  shame,  that  your  country 
house  is  built  over  the  pit  of  hell  ?  Would  it  not  be 
better  to  be  poor  and  just  than  rich  and  what  you 
are — a  manufacturer  of  vice  ?" 

"I  tell  you  I  can't  do  it,"  he  replied. 

"Then  I  reply,  you  must." 

"And  who  will  make  me?" 


298      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"I  will.  I  propose  to  give  you  one  month  in  which 
to  consider  the  whole  question.  I  believe  that  you 
have  enough  natural  kindliness  of  heart,  enough 
natural  sense  of  justice,  if  you  will  but  consider  the 
matter  thoroughly,  to  come  to  my  point  of  view.  If, 
unfortunately,  you  come  to  an  opposite  decision,  I 
shall  publish  in  The  Daily  Light  all  the  details  about 
your  position  which  I  have  discussed  this  morning." 

Stonecroft  rose  without  a  word.  He  was  too 
stunned  for  further  speech. 

When  he  left  the  room  Butler  said,  grimly : 

"I  think  the  Inquisition  will  prove  a  success.  I 
rather  think  it  has  made  its  first  convert." 


XX 

THE  POOL  AND   THE  RIVER 

BUTLER'S  "Inquisition,"  as  he  called  it,  dur- 
ing the  next  few  weeks,  continued  its  work 
with  remarkable  vigour.  In  his  heart 
Gaunt  was  not  wholly  sympathetic  with  Butler's 
methods.  His  nature  was  too  tender,  his  spirit  was 
too  loving  and  charitable,  for  the  exercise  of  judi- 
cial functions.  He  often  thought  that  moral  suasion 
would  have  succeeded  just  as  well;  that,  in  fact,  men 
like  Stonecroft  might  have  been  persuaded  to  right- 
eousness. But  he  knew,  nevertheless,  that  the  facts 
were  against  him.  Had  he  not  himself  preached  for 
seven  years  to  Roberts,  and  yet  Roberts  was  on  But- 
ler's Black  List?  And  he  had  preached  plainly  and 
boldly  enough.  His  conscience  acquitted  him  on 
that  score.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  all,  Roberts  had 
gone  on  his  own  way  and  had  done  evil  in  the  sight 
of  the  Lord. 

This  was  the  eternal  anomaly,  and  his  soul  was 
saddened  by  it.  How  explain  it?  And  the  more 
he  thought  of  it,  the  more  clearly  he  saw  that  the 
moral  failure  of  the  pulpit  lay  in  its  lack  of  au- 
thority. The  preacher  preached  professionally,  and, 
therefore,  no  one  thought  of  taking  his  words  seri- 
ously. Moreover,  he  had  no  power  of  enforcing 

299 


300      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

them,  being  himself  the  paid  servant  of  the  men 
whom  he  addressed.  It  was  different  in  mediaeval 
times  when  the  Church  knew  how  to  enforce  its 
laws,  and  did  so  relentlessly.  It  was  different  in 
the  days  of  Jonathan  Edwards,  when  the  terror  of 
an  unseen  world  lay  on  men.  But  the  fear  of  the 
unseen  had  long  ago  been  dissipated.  The  vision  of 
a  great  white  throne,  of  a  judgment  seat,  of  a  hell 
for  evildoers — all  had  melted  like  a  pageant  in  the 
sunset  clouds,  and  there  was  left  only  the  hard,  bare 
sky.  Slowly  he  began  to  see  that  social  redemption 
could  only  be  achieved  by  the  restoration  of  moral 
authority,  and  he  could  not  but  admit  that  Butler's 
work  was  an  effort  to  create  a  centre  of  moral 
authority. 

As  for  Butler,  he  had  no  doubts. 

"If  you  had  been  an  editor  as  long  as  I  have," 
he  said  one  day  to  Gaunt,  "you  would  know  that 
life  is  a  pretty  rough  business,  and  cannot  be  car- 
ried on  without  rough  measures.  You've  not  got 
over  the  debilitating  effects  of  being  a  minister  yet, 
my  friend." 

Gaunt  laughed  at  the  word  "debilitating." 
"That's  about  the  last  word  my  critics  would  think 
of  applying  to  me,"  he  said. 

"Oh,  you're  improving,"  said  Butler,  sardonically. 
"But  you'll  never  quite  make  up  for  the  lack  of 
locusts  and  wild  honey  in  your  education.  You've 
had  too  much  of  soft  raiment  and  king's  houses, 
you  know.  You've  got  rid  of  them,  by  the  mercy 


THE    POOL   AND    THE    RIVER     301 

of  God,  but  you  can't  get  rid  of  their  effects  all  at 
once." 

"I  rather  thought  a  famous  editor  knew  more 
about  those  things  than  a  poor  parson/'  Gaunt  re- 
torted. 

"Oh,  yes,  an  editor  no  doubt  gets  a  pretty  fair 
share  of  the  rewards  of  life  when  he  succeeds,  but 
that's  not  what  I  mean.  What  I  mean  is  this,  that 
you've  never  until  recently  handled  life  with  naked 
hands,  and  I've  never  done  anything  else.  You've 
been  brought  up  in  all  sorts  of  notions  about  the 
beauty  and  kindliness  of  human  nature,  because 
in  a  church  human  nature  seems  to  the  average  min- 
ister an  amiable  thing,  delicately  nourished  on 
angels'  food,  with  some  defects,  no  doubt,  but  with 
no  brutal  instincts.  So  the  average  minister,  living 
in  a  sentimental  world,  sees  everything  through  the 
glamour  of  sentiment,  and  speaks  and  acts  accord- 
ingly." 

"And  an  editor?" 

"An  editor  has  no  illusions.  Take  my  life.  Ever 
since  I  was  sixteen  I  have  been  handling  life  with 
naked  hands — forgive  the  repetition  of  the  phrase. 
I've  mixed  with  thieves  and  pickpockets;  followed 
the  clue  of  repulsive  crimes;  discovered  corruption 
where  I  looked  for  rectitude;  found  men  self-seek- 
ing, greedy,  unscrupulous.  Life,  as  I  have  seen  it, 
is  not  an  amiable  affair  at  all;  it  is  a  strong,  brutal, 
terrible  thing.  It's  a  tremendous  battle,  in  which  the 
fiercest  passions  are  at  work.  Oh,  it  can  be  heroic, 


302      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

too, — that  I  know.  But  fear  lies  at  its  base.  You 
must  make  men  afraid  of  something  if  you  want  to 
make  them  move  to  a  higher  plane  of  living.  The 
soldier  fears  to  be  thought  a  coward;  therefore  he 
flings  his  life  away.  The  merchant  fears  the  rod  of 
justice;  therefore  he  controls  his  greed  within  the 
bounds  of  law.  In  the  highest  state  of  development 
men  fear  the  rebuke  of  conscience,  they  fear  the 
disapproval  of  God,  and  then  you  get  the  saint. 
The  love  of  God  is  the  last  word  of  wisdom,  no 
doubt,  but  the  fear  of  God  is  the  beginning  of  wis- 
dom. My  particular  work  just  now,  as  I  conceive 
it,  is  to  put  the  fear  of  God  into  the  hearts  of  men 
like  William  Stonecroft." 

"What  about  Stonecroft?" 

"Oh,  he's  a  good  case.  I  think  he'll  come  round 
to  our  point  of  view.  I've  kept  careful  track  of  his 
doings,  though,  of  course  he  doesn't  know  it.  He's 
dismissed  that  brute  of  a  manager.  He's  closed  one 
of  his  houses,  whose  evil  reputation  was  notorious. 
Stonecroft  is  an  easy  case,  because  he  is  at  heart 
a  good  man.  He  sinned  not  wilfully  but  through 
criminal  carelessness — the  carelessness  of  the  man 
who  grows  wealthy  too  fast,  and  leaves  to  others 
the  management  of  his  affairs,  and  doesn't  trouble 
about  details.  If  I  had  only  to  deal  with  men  of 
his  order  I  should  have  no  trouble,  but  I'm  no 
prophet  if  we  are  not  going  to  be  up  against  the 
worst  kind  of  trouble  with  some  of  the  other  men 
on  my  list  before  many  weeks  are  over." 


THE    POOL    AND    THE    RIVER     303 

Gaunt  grew  serious  at  once.  "Tell  me  what  you 
mean,"  he  said. 

"I've  nothing  very  definite  to  tell  you  at  present. 
I  am  only  conscious  that  a  storm  is  brewing.  From 
what  direction  it  will  break,  I  can't  tell.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  a  letter  which  shows  the  sort  of  spirit 
which  is  at  work." 

He  handed  Gaunt  the  letter.  It  was  typewritten 
and  anonymous.  It  was  composed  with  a  sort  of 
sober  violence,  a  cold  unexaggerated  vindictiveness, 
much  more  impressive  than  any  wild  and  whirling 
words  would  have  been.  The  writer  remarked  that 
he  and  many  others  were  aware  of  all  Gaunt's  plans 
and  movements.  They  had  nothing  to  say  against 
his  work  as  long  as  it  was  confined  to  its  own  proper 
sphere  of  religious  activity.  He  warned  Gaunt  that 
if  he  passed  beyond  that  sphere  of  activity  there  were 
those  who  would  remorselessly  crush  him.  -  They 
had  the  means,  they  would  find  the  way.  For  the 
present  they  contented  themselves  with  warning 
him  that  he  was  in  greater  danger  than  he  imag- 
ined. If  he  made  it  necessary  for  them  to  strike, 
they  would  strike  hard  and  mercilessly,  and 
the  blow  would  come  in  such  a  way  that 
no  precautions  he  might  take  would  enable  him 
to  avoid  it. 

As  Gaunt  read  the  letter  his  eyes  flamed.  If  he 
had  at  all  hesitated  in  his  approval  of  Butler's  cam- 
paign, he  now  hesitated  no  more.  The  letter  had 
an  effect  precisely  the  contrary  of  that  intended  by 


304     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

the  writer.  Instead  of  intimidating  him,  it  kindled 
in  him  the  spirit  of  battle. 

"Have  you  any  guess  who  the  writer  is?"  he  said. 

"None  whatever."  Then,  noting  the  anger  in 
Gaunt's  face,  he  added:  "Now  don't  take  it  too 
seriously.  I  have  received  hundreds  of  such  letters 
in  my  time.  It  may  mean  anything  or  nothing;  it 
may  be  an  idle  threat  or  a  serious  menace.  It  is 
impossible  to  decide  which.  The  only  certain  thing 
is  that  we've  hit  somebody  pretty  hard  and  he's 
angry." 

"But  it's  dastardly." 

"Of  course  it  is.  You  don't  expect  the  devil  to 
play  fair,  do  you?" 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  ? 

"Go  on,  just  go  on.  In  the  course  of  a  day  or  two, 
I  shall  begin  a  series  of  articles  in  The  Daily  Light. 
I  shall  use  this  letter  later  on,  if  the  occasion  de- 
mands it.  It  will  be  a  valuable  bit  of  evidence  on  the 
character  of  our  opponents.  We're  in  for  a  big  fight, 
but  I've  not  a  doubt  as  to  the  issue.  I  know  you 
think  I've  rather  a  poor  opinion  of  human  nature; 
well,  let  me  confess  that  I  have  one  supreme  faith; 
it  is  that  the  great  multitude  of  plain  folk  are  always 
on  the  side  of  right,  when  they  once  know  what 
right  is." 

"That's  a  great  creed,"  said  Gaunt. 

"It  is  a  justified  creed  at  any  rate,"  said  Butler. 
"I've  never  found  it  false.  There's  an  inextinguish- 
able moral  sense  in  man,  in  spite  of  all  our  philoso- 


THE    POOL    AND    THE    RIVER     305 

phers.  The  curious  thing  is  that  it  is  most  vital  in 
the  people  who  are  roughest  and  most  ignorant. 
As  man  goes  up  in  the  social  scale  he  loses  it.  I 
suppose  this  is  the  result  of  wealth.  All  revolutions 
have  their  birth  among  the  common  people.  It  is 
from  the  womb  of  labour  and  hardship  that  all  the 
Christs  come.  And  it  is  the  poor  alone  who 
have  the  vision  to  recognize  the  Christ  when  He 


comes." 


A  day  or  two  later  Butler  began  his  memorable 
series  of  articles  in  The  Daily  Light.  In  his  first 
article  he  defined  his  policy.  He  began  by  stating 
what  was  perfectly  obvious  and  familiar  to  all  Amer- 
ican citizens:  viz.,  that  law  had  everywhere  fallen 
into  disrepute.  It  was  notorious  that  a  rich  man  had 
means  of  either  coercing,  buying,  or  influencing  the 
law  in  his  own  favour.  America  was  practically  at 
the  mercy  of  the  rich  men,  many  of  whom  were  scoun- 
drels of  the  worst  kind.  But  if  law  failed  to  touch  the 
lawbreaker,  there  still  remained  another  tribunal,  the 
tribunal  of  publicity.  He  proposed,  first  of  all,  to 
give  a  just  and  impartial  account  of  the  various 
abuses  which  worked  injustice  and  suffering  in  the 
common  life.  Those  who  were  guilty  would  recog- 
nize their  offences  in  those  articles.  If  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  offence  produced  penitence  and  repara- 
tion, he  was  content.  If  no  such  results  followed 
he  would  proceed  to  publish  the  names  of  the  of- 
fenders, with  full  details  of  their  misdoing,  and  leave 
public  opinion  to  deal  with  them  in  its  own  way. 


306      A   PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

These  articles  at  once  produced  furious  comment 
in  The  Yellow  Press.  Both  Butler  and  Gaunt  were 
mercilessly  caricatured  and  ridiculed.  Who  was 
Butler,  jeered  the  Press,  that  he  should  take  it  upon 
himself  to  be  the  censor  of  New  York  ?  They  took 
leave  to  remind  him  that  tyrannical  Puritanism  died 
a  good  many  decades  ago  in  New  England,  after 
making  the  life  of  the  people  miserable  by  its  exac- 
tions, and  that  America  would  never  permit  its  resur- 
rection in  the  persons  of  a  fanatical  editor  and  a 
crack-brained  parson. 

"You  see,"  said  Butler,  as  he  read  this  article  to 
Gaunt,  "the  writer  of  that  anonymous  letter  was 
right  when  he  said  that  he  was  perfectly  aware  of 
our  plans  and  movements.  I  have  not  mentioned 
your  name,  but  our  antagonists  recognize  my  mani- 
festo as  coming  from  the  League  of  Service." 

"I  am  proud  that  they  should  do  so,"  said  Gaunt. 
"All  that  I  am  afraid  of  is  that  some  of  our  work- 
ers may  be  exposed  to  insult  and  violence — particu- 
larly the  women." 

"Oh,  it  hasn't  come  to  that  yet,  and  it  won't  for 
some  time,"  said  Butler.  "Of  course  it  may  happen, 
but  I  shall  know  well  in  advance.  At  present  out 
antagonists  will  be  content  with  ridicule  of  out 
motives  and  personal  defamation." 

To  this  attack  Butler  replied  with  a  personal  artij 
cle.  He  stated  that  he  had  not  the  honour  to  be 
called  a  Puritan;  he  was  simply  a  plain  citizen,  who 
was  fighting  the  battle  of  the  plain  people.  He 


THE    POOL    AND    THE    RIVER     307 

would  not  be  deterred  from  his  duty  by  either  ridi- 
cule or  abuse. 

And,  then,  day  by  day  he  followed  up  his  first 
article  with  others,  in  which  the  social  sores  of  New 
York  were  remorselessly  exposed.  He  drew  vivid 
pictures  of  the  methods  by  which  vice  was  manu- 
factured; how  insufficient  wages  made  virtue  nearly 
impossible  for  hosts  of  women  workers;  how  the 
life  of  crowded  tenements — dark,  airless,  and  in- 
sanitary— provoked  a  violent  passion  for  excess  of 
some  kind  in  the  lives  of  multitudes  who  felt  them- 
selves unjustly  deprived  of  the  joy  of  living;  and 
how  behind  all  this  phantasmagoria  of  social  misery 
there  stood  men  and  women  who  drew  from  it  the 
sources  of  their  luxury,  who  lived  delicately,  who 
had  houses  at  Newport  and  yachts  upon  the  Hudson, 
who  took  all  the  joy  of  living  as  a  right,  and  never 
so  much  as  thought  of  those  who  were  sacrificed  to 
produce  the  pleasures  they  themselves  enjoyed.  He 
dealt  most  trenchantly  with  the  condition  of  the 
women  workers  of  New  York.  In  its  pride  and 
love  of  boasting  the  Press  had  shouted  itself  hoarse 
in  affirming  that  America  was  "a  woman's  country." 
No  doubt  the  women  of  good  birth  and  ample  means 
had  a  good  time;  they  had  too  good  a  time,  for  it 
made  them  vain  and  selfish.  But  what  of  the  other 
kind  of  women — the  great  host  of  toilers?  As  a 
class  they  were  shamelessly  underpaid,  and  in  many 
instances  as  shamelessly  overworked.  The  doctors 
of  New  York  could  tell  a  tale  full  of  horror,  if  they 


308      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

chose.  The  keepers  of  houses  where  such  women 
boarded  could  tell  a  yet  more  terrifying  story. 

And  then  he  proceeded  to  elaborate  his  parable  of 
the  pool  and  the  river;  the  pool  of  misery  which  a 
hundred  charities  and  philanthropic  societies  were 
endeavouring  to  bale  out,  and  the  river  of  wrong 
forever  flowing  into  it,  so  that  in  the  end  nothing 
was  really  accomplished.  And  this  river  of  wrong 
often  rose  in  the  churches  and  philanthropic  societies 
themselves,  though  no  one  seemed  to  see  it,  or  if  he 
saw  it  had  not  the  daring  to  declare  what  he  saw. 
The  very  men  who  gave  money  for  the  relief  of 
social  misery  were  often  themselves  the  silent  acces- 
sories of  the  misery  they  sought  to  relieve.  It  was, 
therefore,  the  conditions  of  social  misery  that  must 
be  ascertained,  and  that  implied  examination  of  the 
sources  of  wealth.  To  rescue  people  from  a  leaky 
ship  was  no  doubt  humane  and  heroic;  but  would 
it  not  be  far  more  sensible  to  stop  the  leaks,  and  to 
make  it  impossible  for  the  leaky  ship  to  put  out  to 
sea?  And  so  from  day  to  day  he  pursued  his  for- 
midable indictment.  He  wrote  as  he  had  always 
written  on  moral  themes,  with  a  restrained  fire  and 
passion;  always  lucid,  rational,  sober  in  statement, 
but  with  a  deadly  incisiveness  and  force.  It  was 
these  elements  that  gave  him  his  power,  and  never 
was  that  power  so  manifest  as  in  this  memorable 
series  of  articles. 

They  were  widely  quoted,  of  course.  They  gave 
occasion  for  certain  other  cities  to  loudly  profess 


THE    POOL    AND    THE    RIVER     309 

themselves  not  as  New  York,  whereat  Butler  smiled 
grimly,  and  related  for  their  benefit  the  story  of  the 
men  upon  whom  the  tower  of  Siloam  fell,  with 
emendations  and  applications  of  his  own. 

But  the  most  remarkable  thing  was  that  after 
the  first  outburst  of  The  Yellow  Press,  that  great 
agent  of  public  demoralisation  fell  wholly  silent. 
Gaunt  was  disposed  to  regard  this  as  a  victory,  but 
Butler  soon  undeceived  him. 

"It's  an  ominous  silence,"  he  said.  "It  means  a 
storm." 

"I  rather  think  it  means  that  they  are  waiting  to 
see  which  way  the  wind  blows,"  said  Gaunt. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Butler.  "I  don't  say  they 
won't  pretend  to  support  me,  if  they  should  conclude 
that  it  would  pay  them  to  do  so;  but  it  is  far  more 
likely  that  they  will  conspire  to  crush  me.  Indeed, 
I  have  reason  to  know  that  is  what  their  silence 
really  means." 

"Have  you  had  any  more  threatening  letters  ?" 

"No,  but  I've  found  that  they  have  tried  quietly  to 
buy  the  control  of  my  paper.  Fortunately  that  is 
impossible.  Have  I  ever  told  you  the  history  of 
my  paper?" 

"No;  I  would  like  to  hear  it." 

"Well,  I  worked  for  years  at  journalism,  saving 
every  cent  I  could,  always  in  the  hope  that  I  might 
some  day  get  a  paper  of  my  own :  for  a  mere  editor 
is  in  a  position  much  more  insecure  than  that  of  any 
minister.  He  is,  of  course,  entirely  at  the  mercy 


3io      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

of  the  proprietors  of  his  paper,  who  may  change 
their  policy  at  a  moment's  notice  or  may  differ  from 
their  editor  in  opinion,  or  may  sell  their  interests. 
A  mere  editor  is  the  least  independent  of  men.  So 
I  saved  and  saved  to  obtain  independence,  and  for 
years  limited  myself  to  two  very  plain  meals  a  day. 
Then  a  fortunate  legacy  gave  me  my  chance.  I 
started  my  paper,  putting  all  I  had  into  it.  For  more 
than  a  year  ruin  stared  me  in  the  face.  I  had  finally 
to  sell  a  quarter  share  to  save  myself,  and  from 
that  day  the  tide  turned.  But  I  kept  my  three- 
quarters  interest,  though  I  almost  starved  to  do  it, 
in  the  first  six  months  of  the  partnership.  It  was 
worth  starving  for;  it  was  the  price  of  freedom. 

"Well,  the  other  man  with  the  quarter  share  has 
been  to  see  me  thrice  in  the  last  week.  Each  time  he 
came  on  the  same  errand.  He  wanted  to  buy  a  con- 
trolling interest,  and  offered  me  a  sum  for  it  that 
would  have  made  me  a  rich  man  for  life.  He  wasn't 
very  adroit  about  it.  I  read  his  purpose  in  his  eyes. 
Of  course  he's  been  got  at  by  the  other  side." 

"Which  means  that  the  other  side  is  thoroughly 
alarmed." 

"Of  course.  And  you'd  say  so  if  you  knew  all 
that  went  on  in  my  office." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  smiled  at  some  recol- 
lection. Then  he  added :  "The  task  of  a  Grand  In- 
quisitor isn't  pleasant,  but  it  has  some  redeeming 
elements  of  humour.  The  latest  form  of  humour  on 
the  part  of  one  of  my  black  sheep  is  to  hire  an  ex- 


THE    POOL   AND    THE    RIVER     3" 

pugilist  with  a  cudgel  to  wait  for  me  at  the  door  of 
the  office.  He's  a  good-natured  sort  of  pugilist,  and 
innocently  let  his  designs  be  discovered  by  one  of  the 
men,  who  indulged  him  in  certain  potent  cocktails. 
It  seems  he  didn't  know  me  by  sight,  and  was  ex- 
tremely anxious  to  make  my  acquaintance.  When 
the  cocktails  had  done  their  work  I  sent  for  him 
to  my  office,  and  behaved  so  beautifully  to  him  that 
he  actually  began  to  regard  me  with  affection.  Con- 
spirators should  be  very  careful  to  understand  the 
antecedents  of  those  they  employ.  It  seemed  that 
my  ex-pugilist  had  a  daughter  who  was  as  the  apple 
of  his  eyes,  and  that  Olivia  Jordan  had  been  kind  to 
her  when  the  girl  lay  sick.  When  he  knew  that  I 
was  in  the  same  swim  with  Olivia,  he  became  quite 
maudlin  and  professed  that  he  wouldn't  harm  me 
for  the  world.  I  asked  him  what  wages  he  earned 
as  a  professional  sandbagger,  and  he  told  me  with 
engaging  frankness;  also  the  name  of  his  employer. 
I  promptly  doubled  his  wages  to  go  on  waiting  for 
me  at  the  door  of  the  office.  He's  still  there.  He's  a 
ferocious-looking  scoundrel,  but  he  has  a  most  allur- 
ing wink.  You  should  see  him  wink  at  me  when  I 
go  in  and  out." 

Later  on  in  the  evening  Butler  came  to  see  Gaunt, 
bringing  William  Stonecroft  with  him.  Stonecroft's 
demeanour  was  quite  altered.  His  surface  geniality 
had  vanished. 

"You  know  my  errand,  no  doubt,"  he  said,  speak- 
ing slowly  and  heavily. 


312      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"I  have  been  expecting  you,"  said  Gaunt,  "and 
am  heartily  glad  to  see  you." 

"You  expected  me?" 

"Yes,  because  I  felt  quite  sure  that  you  meant  to 
do  the  right  thing,  and  would  do  it." 

Stonecroft's  face  flushed.  "I  think  it  was  because 
I  felt  you  had  that  kind  of  faith  in  me  that  I've 
found  strength  to  fight  the  hardest  battle  of  my  life," 
he  said. 

"But  it  has  been  a  hard,  hard  battle,"  he  con- 
tinued, and  as  he  spoke  the  dulness  in  his  voice 
dissolved,  and  he  began  to  speak  with  energy.  "I 
give  you  my  word  I  had  no  idea  of  the  existence  of 
the  sort  of  things  you  laid  to  my  charge.  Of  course 
that's  no  defence,  because  I  ought  to  have  known. 
I  see  that  now,  and  I  marvel  that  I  didn't  see  it  long 
ago.  Up  to  about  ten  years  ago  I  was  only  moder- 
ately rich,  and  I  looked  after  my  affairs  with  jealous 
scrutiny.  Then  I  found  myself  wealthy,  and  like 
most  wealthy  men  thought  I  had  a  right  to  enjoy 
my  leisure.  I  made  my  riches  in  New  York,  but  I 
ceased  to  live  in  it.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the 
mischief." 

"I  think  I  understand,"  said  Gaunt. 

"No,  I  doubt  if  you  do,  or  can.  At  all  events,  I 
am  sure  you  can't  understand  the  temptations  of 
such  a  position.  Do  you  know  what  it  means  to  live 
in  a  green  nook  of  the  country,  with  all  the  pleasures 
that  wealth  can  give  you?  Well,  I  will  tell  you 
what  happens — your  soul  goes  to  sleep.  The  days 


THE    POOL    AND    THE    RIVER     3'3 

pass  so  noiselessly,  life  moves  on  such  an  even  keel, 
that  you  forget  the  very  existence  of  a  tragic  world. 
If  you  think  of  it  at  all,  it  is  with  a  complacent  com- 
miseration, as  if  of  something  far  off  and  unreal. 
Then  your  moral  sense  becomes  lethargic,  and  as  for 
your  power  of  sympathy,  there  is  nothing  to  call  it 
out.  That  was  how  I  lived — with  my  soul  asleep. 
But  I've  learned  my  lesson, — thank  God,  I've  learned 
it, — though  it  has  been  a  terrible  one." 

His  face  was  tragic. 

Then  he  continued.  "Do  you  remember  how  you 
asked  me  that  day  what  I  was  going  to  do  ?  I  went 
away  in  great  anger,  but  night  and  day  that  ques- 
tion haunted  me.  I  found  myself  reviewing  my 
methods  of  life,  and  the  more  I  considered  them,  the 
more  unhappy  I  became.  At  last  I  saw  one  thing 
clearly:  I  saw  that  a  man  ought  to  live  where  his 
money  is  being  earned.  The  moment  I  arrived  at 
that  conclusion  everything  else  became  clear  to  me. 
I  was  taking  the  rewards  of  labour  without  labour- 
ing— that  was  my  sin;  and  nothing  could  be  right 
with  me  until  that  sin  was  renounced.  Having 
reached  that  decision,  I  knew  what  I  had  to  do.  I 
have  spent  the  last  month  in  New  York,  and  have 
gone  thoroughly  into  my  affairs.  Some  of  the  worst 
abuses  have  been  remedied.  Be  patient  with  me,  and 
I  promise  you  that  the  rest  shall  follow. 

"The  best  guarantee  that  I  can  give  you  for  that 
promise  is  that  at  Christmas  I  shall  return  to  New 
York  for  good,  and  go  to  business  every  day  as  I 


314      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

used  to  do  when  I  was  relatively  poor  and  strug- 
gling. I  have  let  my  country  house.  I  intend  to 
live  among  the  people  who  henceforth  will  work  not 
only  for  me  but  with  me:  and  I  will  make  it  my 
business  to  make  them  sharers  in  all  the  good  that  I 
enjoy,  as  far  as  it  is  possible  to  me." 

Gaunt  and  Butler  were  both  deeply  moved.  Gaunt 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  Stonecroft  in  warm  regard 
— it  was  some  moments  before  he  could  speak. 
When  he  spoke,  he  said,  in  a  low  voice :  "Mr.  Stone- 
croft,  a  few  weeks  ago  when  you  offered  me  money 
for  the  League  of  Service,  we  refused  it.  I  want 
to  ask  you  now  to  give  us  something  better  than 
money." 

"What  is  that?" 

"Give  us  yourself.  Join  the  League,  and  work 
with  us.  You  have  earned  the  right." 

"I  shall  count  it  the  greatest  honour  of  my  life," 
he  replied. 

And  so  that  night  there  was  written  on  the  roll 
of  the  League  a  name  that  has  ever  since  been  a 
synonym  for  stainless  honour  and  widest  charity, 
the  name  of  William  Stonecroft. 


XXI 
HOME  AT  LAST 

THE  conversion  of  Stonecroft  soon  became 
public.  Indeed  he  himself  courted  pub- 
licity by  writing  a  long  letter  to  The 
Daily  Light,  in  which  he  earnestly  pleaded  the  cause 
of  the  League,  and  insisted  on  the  new  principle  of 
conduct  which  he  had  discovered,  viz.,  that  those 
who  make  money  in  a  city  should  live  among  those 
whom  they  employ.  His  letter  naturally  attracted 
great  attention,  and  among  those  who  read  it  was 
Dr.  Jordan. 

Jordan  was  an  obstinate,  but  not  a  stupid  man. 
The  astuteness  which  had  enabled  him  to  manage  a 
church  with  success  through  so  many  years,  also 
gave  him  some  power  of  reading  the  signs  of  the 
times.  Stonecroft's  letter  startled  him.  He  began 
to  ask  himself  for  the  first  time  whether  he  had  not 
been  mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  Gaunt  and  his  work. 

When  a  man  of  Jordan's  temperament  begins  to 
doubt  his  own  infallibility,  the  disintegration  of  the 
said  infallibility  is  rapid.  Hitherto  Jordan  had  had 
abundant  faith  in  himself,  and  had  justified  it. 
Amid  a  hundred  contentions  and  disputes,  some  of 
them  paltry  enough,  but  others  of  real  moment,  he 

315 


316      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

had  never  once  found  himself  seriously  mistaken. 
He  had  always  chosen  his  ground  with  care,  had 
measured  men  and  occasions  with  cautious  perspi- 
cacity, and  had  uniformly  found  himself  upon  the 
winning  side.  He  was  now  to  discover  that  astute- 
ness and  wisdom  are  very  different  things.  In  the 
presence  of  elemental  forces  astuteness  is  a  vain 
thing ;  it  is  little  better  than  a  child's  trick.  Wisdom 
would  have  recognized  in  the  sudden  and  wide  tri- 
umph of  Gaunt's  principles  the  upheaval  of  the  ele- 
mental in  men's  thoughts;  but  this  wisdom — the 
gift  of  the  seer — Jordan  did  not  possess.  And  so  it 
needed  the  sudden  conversion  of  a  man  like  Stone- 
croft  to  make  him  aware  of  the  truth  of  things. 

On  a  certain  Monday  morning  Jordan  sat  in  the 
room  at  his  church  which  he  used  as  a  study.  It 
was  a  large,  comfortably  furnished  room,  surrounded 
by  bookshelves.  In  the  earlier  and  happier  times  of 
his  life  he  had  made  but  infrequent  use  of  this  room, 
preferring  to  do  his  intellectual  work  at  home.  But 
his  home  had  become  a  desolation,  and  in  these  days 
he  found  its  silence  unbearable.  He  had  driven  his 
son  away,  he  had  virtually  expelled  Olivia ;  but  their 
reproachful  ghosts  seemed  to  haunt  the  house,  their 
footfalls  lingered  on  threshold  and  stairway,  their 
voices  echoed  in  the  vacant  rooms  when  the  darkness 
fell;  until  he  had  grown  afraid.  He  had  hardly 
confessed  this  fear  to  himself;  he  had  hitherto,  in 
spite  of  his  suffering,  had  no  misgiving  about  the 
course  which  he  had  pursued;  he  saw  himself  rather 


HOME    AT    LAST  317 

as  a  martyr,  a  man  who  was  punished  for  the  follies 
of  others,  not  for  his  own. 

But  now,  as  he  sat  in  his  church-study  on  this 
Monday  morning,  he  became  conscious  of  a  new 
movement  in  his  thoughts.  His  egoism  was  crum- 
bling, his  faith  in  himself  had  begun  to  waver.  He 
was  in  the  position  of  the  man  whose  creed  rests  not 
upon  broad  principles,  but  on  the  alleged  accuracy 
of  numerous  details ;  consequently  a  man  for  whom 
the  disproof  of  a  detail  is  the  dislodgment  of  the 
whole  structure  of  belief.  If  he  had  been  mistaken 
in  his  estimate  of  Gaunt,  it  followed  that  he  had 
been  mistaken  in  his  treatment  of  Olivia.  He  had 
treated  Olivia  harshly ;  if  in  her  case  he  was  wrong, 
perhaps  he  had  also  been  wrong  in  the  harshness 
which  he  had  shown  toward  his  son.  His  pride 
struggled  against  the  thought,  but  the  hour  for  pride 
was  over.  Stonecroft's  defection — for  so  he  still 
called  it — had  inflicted  a  fatal  wound  to  his  pride. 
Here  was  a  man  of  great  wealth  and  social  influence, 
the  one  man  in  Jordan's  church  who  more  than  any 
other  had  stood  for  the  old  order  of  things,  a  man 
moreover  of  great  astuteness  of  mind,  not  in  the 
least  liable  to  fanaticism — and  he  had  suddenly  be- 
come the  public  advocate  of  Gaunt's  views.  Jordan 
groaned  in  genuine  bewilderment  of  spirit.  And  he 
had  no  longer  the  vigour  to  resent  the  blow  that  had 
fallen  upon  him.  He  had  even  begun  to  realize, 
with  a  pang  of  torturing  humiliation,  that  it  might 
be  deserved. 


318      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

The  bell  rang.  Jordan  roused  himself  from  his 
gloomy  reverie;  a  visitor  was  climbing  the  stair. 
The  visitor  was  Stonecroft. 

"Good-morning,  Doctor/'  said  Stonecroft.  "I 
thought  I  would  catch  you  early,  before  your  day's 
work  began." 

"I  am  always  glad  to  see  you/'  said  Jordan  with 
a  briskness  of  manner  which  was  noticeably  forced. 

Stonecroft  sat  down,  and  for  some  minutes  the 
conversation  ranged  over  conventional  nothings. 
Each  man  was  acutely  conscious  of  the  question 
which  waited  for  discussion,  but  each  shrank  from 
introducing  it.  At  last  Stonecroft  said  abruptly, 
"Well,  Doctor,  let  us  come  to  business.  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  frankly  about  the  League  of  Service." 

"You  know  my  views,"  said  Jordan,  stiffly. 

"I  know  what  you  have  announced  as  your  views," 
corrected  Stonecroft. 

"Isn't  that  a  somewhat  insulting  distinction  ?" 

"It  is  not  meant  so,"  said  Stonecroft.  "At  the 
time  when  Gaunt  began  his  crusade  it  was  perfectly 
natural  that  you  should  take  the  stand  you  did.  I 
entirely  sympathized  with  you.  But  many  things 
have  happened  since  then.  I  should  underrate  your 
intelligence  if  I  supposed  that  you  were  so  bound  to 
the  fetich  of  consistency  that  you  felt  obliged  to  hold 
to  your  first  view  of  the  case  simply  because  you  had 
publicly  announced  it — quite  irrespective,  I  mean, 
of  the  deductions  which  may  be  made  from  later 
developments." 


HOME    AT    LAST  319 

"I  am  not  aware  of  any  later  developments  that 
demand  a  change  of  view  on  my  part,"  said  Jordan, 
with  a  flash  of  his  old  obstinacy. 

"Doctor/'  said  Stonecroft,  earnestly,  "forgive  me, 
but  is  that  quite  true  ?" 

"No,  it  isn't,"  said  Jordan,  with  a  sudden  capitu- 
lation which  surprised  himself.  "I  will  confess  that 
your  own  conduct  has  been  so  surprising  that  it  has 
raised  doubts  in  my  own  mind." 

"Doubts  as  to  my  conduct  or  your  own?" 

"Both,"  said  Jordan.  He  was  silent  a  moment, 
and  then  his  misery  spoke.  "I  am  full  of  unhappi- 
ness,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  am  no  longer  sure 
of  myself.  In  twenty-five  years  of  public  life  I  have 
known  many  conflicts  of  opinion  and  principle,  but 
I  have  never  known  the  misery  of  the  divided  mind. 
I  have  never  known  hesitation:  hesitation  has  been 
peculiarly  abhorrent  to  me,  as  the  worst  form  of 
weakness.  That  which  I  despised  in  others  I  now 
endure.  I  am  ashamed  of  myself  and  of  my  con- 
fession. I  do  not  suppose  that  you  or  any  man  can 
understand  the  pain  I  suffer." 

Stonecroft  rose,  and  laid  his  hand  on  Jordan's 
shoulder.  "Yes,  I  can  understand,"  he  said. 

"I  can  understand  because  I  have  endured  the 
same  torture.  Do  you  suppose  it  was  an  easy  thing 
for  me  to  do  what  I  have  done?  You  call  this 
torture  the  torture  of  the  divided  mind.  Yes,  it  is 
that,  but  I  suspect  that  it  might  be  more  truthfully 
described  as  the  torture  of  pride.  It  was  my  pride 


320      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

that  was  put  upon  the  rack;  it  is  really  your  pride 
that  is  there  now.  I  believe  that  of  all  hard  things 
in  life,  the  hardest  is  for  a  man  who  has  always 
moved  with  the  easy  stride  of  complete  assurance  to 
say,  'I  am  wrong,  I  have  done  wrong.'  The 
stronger  a  man  is  by  nature  the  harder  is  it  for  him 
to  say  it.  But  oh,  the  relief  when  it  is  said!  My 
friend,  you  have  often  preached  to  me ;  now  it  is  my 
turn  to  preach  to  you — do  the  hardest  and  bravest 
thing  of  your  life :  have  the  courage  to  doubt  your 
own  wisdom." 

"But  it's  not  altogether  pride  with  me,"  said  Jor- 
dan. "I  am  not  sure;  that  is  the  trouble." 

"Well,  then,  let  me  put  you  a  question.  Have  you 
ever  taken  the  pains  to  study  what  this  League  of 
Service  means  at  close  quarters?  Have  you  ex- 
amined its  aim  and  work?" 

"I  have  regarded  it  as  a  piece  of  unworthy  fanat- 


icism." 


"Regarded  it?  Yes,  that  is  the  mistake.  You 
have  stood  aloof,  and  measured  it  from  the  height  of 
your  own  supposed  omniscience.  I  did  the  same. 
Would  it  not  be  wiser  to  take  nothing  for  granted, 
not  even  your  own  omniscience?" 
"Well,  what  would  you  have  me  do?" 
"Simply  cease  to  judge  and  begin  to  examine. 
Get  rid  of  misleading  words — fanaticism  is  one  of 
them — and  weigh  facts.  I  will  make  you  a  definite 
proposal.  Give  me  this  week.  Let  me  show  you  the 
kind  of  things  this  crusade  is  actually  doing.  If  at 


HOME    AT    LAST  321 

the  end  of  the  week  you  still  disapprove,  you  will  at 
least  have  more  than  theory  and  prejudice  to  support 
you;  but  I  shall  be  greatly  surprised  if  you  don't 
find  yourself  on  our  side  before  the  week's  ended." 

"Don't  assume  too  much,"  said  Jordan.  "I  will 
promise  you  the  week,  but  as  for  myself,  I  can 
promise  nothing." 

"Very  well,"  said  Stonecroft,  cheerily.  "That's 
understood.  I'll  call  for  you  this  evening  about  six 
o'clock,  if  that  will  do." 

"That  will  do,"  said  Jordan. 

Jordan  sat  silent  a  long  time  after  Stonecroft  left 
him.  His  dominant  feeling  was  a  sense  of  over- 
whelming surprise  at  his  own  conduct.  He  had 
expected  Stonecrof t's  visit ;  he  had  intended  to  make 
it  the  occasion  of  lively  controversy.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  had  capitulated  without  a  struggle.  More 
than  this :  he  had  exposed  his  own  heart  in  a  way 
which  seemed  incredible.  Was  it  possible  that  these 
were  the  acts  of  Robert  Jordan — that  taciturn, 
reticent  Jordan,  who  had  always  put  a  severe  re- 
straint upon  his  inner  feeling,  who  had  never  even 
to  his  wife  or  child  made  a  full  exposure  of  his  own 
soul  ?  And  he  had  done  this  to  a  man  whom  he  had 
never  even  regarded  as  an  intimate  friend.  He, 
whose  every  act  had  been  the  fruit  of  calculation, 
had  allowed  himself  to  be  mastered  by  an  impulse  of 
confession,  wholly  foreign  to  all  his  previous  in- 
stincts. And  yet  he  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of 
relief,  as  of  a  burden  lifted  from  the  heart.  What 


322      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

did  it  all  mean  ?  Another  might  have  told  him,  but 
as  yet  he  had  no  vision  to  discern  the  truth  that  what 
he  was  experiencing  was  the  birth  of  humility.  His 
egoism  was  upon  the  cross,  and  through  all  the  cruel 
anguish  a  soft  voice  whispered,  "Lord,  it  is  good  for 
me  to  be  here."  It  was  as  though  a  city  had  fallen, 
leaving  erect  a  single  belfry,  which  rang  out  to  the 
awful  sunset  the  thrilling  Angelus — a  high  thin  note 
of  mysterious  consolation  amid  disastrous  ruin. 

A  letter  lay  upon  his  desk  in  Olivia's  handwriting. 
It  had  lain  there  for  days  unopened.  He  had  vowed 
in  the  hardness  of  his  heart  to  refuse  all  communica- 
tion with  the  child  who  had  deserted  him;  but  now 
he  took  up  Olivia's  letter,  and  slowly  broke  the  seal. 
So  much  had  happened  that  was  contrary  to  his 
will,  that  it  seemed  of  little  consequence  if  he  once 
more  obeyed  his  impulse  rather  than  his  habit.  So 
he  broke  the  seal. 

The  letter  bore  no  address  and  was  very  brief. 

"Dear  Father  [it  read] : — If  your  son  should  come  back  to 
you  in  love  and  honour,  would  you  refuse  him?  Robert  is 
alive,  and  he  loves  you.  But  he  will  not,  cannot,  come  to  you, 
till  you  say  'Come.'  Will  you  say  the  word?  He  has  been 
ill;  he  is  now  well,  and  his  one  desire  is  reconciliation  with 
you.  For  myself  I  ask  nothing.  Do  with  me  as  you  please ;  I 
plead  not  for  myself,  but  for  Robert.  To-morrow  I  shall  be 
once  more  in  New  York,  and  will  await  your  reply  at  Dr. 
Gaunt's  house  in  Washington  Square. 

Your  child,  OLIVIA." 

He  looked  at  the  date  upon  the  envelope.  It  was 
a  week  old.  So  then  his  children  had  come  to  New 


HOME   AT   LAST  323 

York,  they  had  waited  no  doubt  for  some  sign  from 
him,  and  all  the  time  their  plea  for  kindness  had 
lain  upon  his  desk  unread.  "Robert  is  alive  and 
loves  you" — yes,  and  he  loved  Robert.  He  knew 
it  now.  The  old  affection,  the  old  pride  in  his  boy, 
the  old  hopes  that  he  had  cherished  for  his  success 
in  life,  all  those  feelings  that  had  once  been  his  de- 
light returned  upon  him  now  in  torturing  vehemence. 
Once  more  he  had  let  occasion  slip,  he  had  failed  to 
know  the  hour  of  his  visitation,  he  had  mismanaged 
his  life  with  a  folly  truly  tragic.  He  had  lost  his 
boy  once  through  harshness  which  he  no  longer 
justified ;  he  had  lost  him  a  second  time  through  mere 
obduracy,  so  stupid  that  no  defence  was  possible. 

Vaguely  he  became  conscious  of  something  that 
defied  human  calculation  in  these  happenings.  He 
heard  over  him  the  dark  wings  of  fate  beating  the 
expectant  air,  he  felt  round  him  the  fast-closing  web 
of  destiny.  And  yet,  as  these  phrases  flashed 
through  his  mind,  he  knew  that  they  were  false. 
Destiny,  fate, — these  could  not  explain  the  paradox 
of  his  tragedy.  What  could?  And  as  he  groped 
for  a  reply,  he  felt  as  though  a  Hand  closed  over 
him,  a  Power  not  himself  was  breaking  him  sinew 
by  sinew,  and  he  knew  the  name  of  that  Power.  He 
fell  upon  his  knees  in  a  great  horror  of  darkness. 
His  prayer  was  characteristic.  "God  be  merciful 
to  me — a  Fool,"  was  all  he  found  to  say. 

Toward  evening  Stonecroft  called  for  him.  "I 
make  one  stipulation,"  said  Jordan.  "I  will  go 


324      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

wherever  you  wish  to  take  me,  but  I  will  not  meet 
Gaunt/* 

"I  have  no  intention  that  you  should,"  Stone- 
croft  replied.  "It  is  a  movement,  not  a  man,  that  I 
wish  you  to  study.  I  simply  wish  you  to  see  some 
of  the  things  that  are  actually  being  done  by  the 
movement,  that  you  may  form  your  own  estimate  of 
them/' 

Jordan  nodded  his  assent.  Presently,  as  the  car- 
riage rolled  eastward,  Jordan  said  abruptly,  "You've 
not  told  me  your  own  story  yet.  I  should  be  glad 
to  hear  it." 

Stonecroft  thereupon  began  to  narrate  how  his 
acquaintance  with  the  League  of  Service  had  be- 
gun ;  his  anger  against  Butler  and  his  resentment  at 
Butler's  interference;  the  gradual  awakening  of  his 
own  conscience;  his  determination  to  examine  for 
himself  those  causes  of  offence  which  Butler  had 
enumerated  against  him,  and  all  those  subsequent 
stages  of  his  thought,  until  the  hour  when  he  had 
acknowledged  his  wrong  and  had  determined  on  its 
reparation. 

"But  surely  it  is  a  monstrous  thing  that  Butler 
should  claim  the  right  of  interference  with  your 
personal  liberty.  You  must  have  felt  it  so?"  said 
Jordan. 

"I  did.  I  was  never  so  enraged  at  anything  in 
my  life.  But  the  more  I  thought  about  it  the  more 
I  came  to  see  that  Butler  was  right — right  not  only 
morally  but  socially." 


HOME   AT   LAST  325 

"I  confess  I  can't  follow  the  process  of  your 
thought." 

"Yet  it's  quite  simple,"  said  Stonecroft.  "If  Isaiah 
or  Jeremiah  had  been  editors  of  a  great  newspaper 
in  Jerusalem,  I  imagine  they  would  have  done  pre- 
cisely what  Butler  is  doing.  I  gather  that  they  made 
it  their  business  to  interfere  a  good  deal  with  the 
liberty  of  the  individual.  And  the  ground  of  their 
interference  was  the  same  as  Butler's,  viz.,  that  all 
individual  liberty  is  conditioned  by  the  general  social 
welfare,  and  that  the  right  of  a  community  to 
happiness  takes  precedence  of  all  individual  rights." 

"But  Butler  threatened  you?" 

"Well,  I  both  needed  and  deserved  the  threat." 

"If  I  had  threatened  you,  you  would  have  at- 
tacked me,"  said  Jordan,  bitterly. 

"My  dear  Doctor,  you  would  never  have 
threatened  me,  and  you  know  it.  The  most  you 
would  ever  have  done  would  have  been  to  preach  a 
sermon  on  social  duty  full  of  glittering  generalities, 
which  I  should  have  promptly  applied  to  some  one 
else.  That's  the  vice  of  the  pulpit — it  deals  with 
mankind  in  the  mass,  it  is  afraid  to  deal  with  in- 
dividuals. It  grows  eloquent  about  the  tragedy  of 
the  poor  man's  one  ewe  lamb,  but  it  never  takes  the 
rich  thief  by  the  throat  and  says  Thou  art  the 
man.'  Oh,  don't  think  I  am  blaming  or  deriding 
you.  I  know  the  difficulties  of  your  position.  But 
those  very  difficulties  make  it  necessary  for  men  like 
Butler  to  do  what  you  cannot  do.  Doctor,  I  have 


326      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

lived  fifty  years,  and  for  twenty  of  those  years,  I 
have  attended  your  ministry.  In  all  those  fifty  years 
Butler  was  the  first  man  who  spoke  to  me  as  an 
individual,  honestly,  searchingly,  and  without  fear." 

Jordan  did  not  reply — no  reply  was  possible;  but 
his  thoughts  were  painful.  For  he  knew  that 
Stonecroft's  accusation  was  true.  The  heroic,  the 
prophetic  element  of  a  public  ministry — that  element 
which  creates  men  of  the  Knox  and  the  Savonarola 
type,  the  masters  of  the  conscience,  the  dictators  of 
morals,  the  regenerators  of  society,  that  element  was 
not  in  him.  His  ideal  had  been  to  go  smoothly, 
to  conciliate  all  men,  especially  the  wealthy,  to  avoid 
offence — ah,  how  mean  it  all  seemed,  and  how  un- 
worthy! Once  more  his  pride  was  on  the  rack. 
Stonecroft  had  virtually  condemned  his  whole 
ministry  as  futile,  and  he  wondered  how  many  more 
of  his  hearers  scorned  him  in  their  hearts  even 
while  their  lips  praised  him. 

The  carriage  was  at  that  moment  passing  a  shop 
outside  which  a  long  line  of  people  waited.  The 
rain  was  beginning  to  fall,  but  they  stood  silent  and 
meek,  moving  a  step  at  a  time  toward  the  door  of 
the  shop.  No  one  appeared  to  take  any  notice  of 
them.  Well-dressed  persons  hurried  by,  upon  their 
errands  of  business  or  pleasure,  without  so  much  as 
a  glance  at  this  abject  throng.  But  as  Jordan  looked 
more  closely  he  saw  half  a  dozen  men  and  women 
passing  along  the  line,  speaking  earnestly  to  man 
after  man.  And  as  the  white  electric  light  flashed 


HOME   AT   LAST  327 

upon  them  through  the  driving  shower,  he  saw  that 
each  of  these  busy  people  wore  upon  the  bosom  a 
simple  cross  of  quaint  design. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  means?"  said  Stone- 
croft.  "That  long  line  of  miserables  are  waiting 
for  bread.  They  have  no  homes.  They  will  sleep 
under  Brooklyn  Bridge  or  on  the  park  seats,  or  any- 
where they  can  to-night." 

"And  who  are  those  persons  talking  with 
them?" 

"Members  of  the  League  of  Service.  Gaunt  has 
lately  opened  half  a  dozen  shelters — those  men  and 
women  with  the  cross  upon  the  breast  are  giving 
these  poor  creatures  tickets  for  a  free  bed  and  break- 
fast in  the  shelter." 

"I  didn't  know  Gaunt  did  that  sort  of  work,"  said 
Jordan.  "I  thought  that  his  movement  meant  little 
more  than  oratorical  fireworks  in  Madison  Square 
Garden." 

"And  that  is  why  I  wanted  you  to  come  with  me 
to-night,"  said  Stonecroft.  "The  League  of  Serv- 
ice is  the  union  of  all  who  love  in  the  service  of  all 
who  suffer." 

The  carriage  stopped.  "We  must  walk  now/' 
said  Stonecroft. 

They  turned  down  a  narrow  crowded  street. 
Saloons  flared  upon  every  hand;  evil  faces  were 
numerous;  the  whole  aspect  of  the  street  was  re- 
pellent and  even  dangerous.  Twice  they  passed 
windows  that  were  boarded  up. 


328      A   PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"Those  were  saloons,"  said  Stonecroft,  "and  the 
vilest  in  the  street.  We  have  closed  them,  and  we 
are  not  loved  for  it.  Some  day  there  will  be  trouble 
over  it — so  our  women  workers  say." 

"Do  women  work  here  ?"  said  Jordan. 

"Why  not  ?"  said  Stonecroft.  "It  is  here  that  the 
misery  of  life  is  greatest,  because  the  vice  and  crime 
are  greatest.  Therefore  this  street  is  the  head- 
quarters of  our  Sisters  of  the  Poor.  A  woman,  you 
know,  is  much  safer  than  a  man  in  such  a  district 
as  this.  Her  best  defence  is  her  goodness ;  even  the 
worst  respect  that." 

The  words  sent  a  pang  through  Jordan's  heart, 
for  he  remembered  that  it  was  this  very  Sisterhood 
that  Olivia  had  joined.  For  the  first  time  he 
realized  what  her  life  must  mean :  a  life  of  self-denial 
and  hard  toil,  and  even  of  peril,  amid  scenes  of 
misery  and  degradation. 

At  last  they  stopped  before  a  plain  and  dingy 
building.  It  had  been  a  dance-hall,  as  the  half- 
effaced  sign  declared.  People  were  passing  into 
it  by  twos  and  threes;  some  of  them  with  smiles 
and  cheerful  feet,  many  more  with  a  furtive  and  half- 
reluctant  air.  Stonecroft  and  Jordan  entered,  tak- 
ing seats  in  the  darkest  corner  they  could  find,  from 
which  they  could  be  observers  without  being  ob- 
served. 

Presently  a  group  of  half  a  dozen  women,  all 
dressed  alike  in  plain  gray,  and  each  wearing  on  the 
breast  a  silver  cross,  took  their  seats  upon  the  plat- 


HOME   AT   LAST  329 

form.     A  moment  later  they  began  to  sing  to  a  soft 
and  almost  inaudible  piano  accompaniment : 

"Stealing  away,  stealing  away, 
Stealing  away  home  to  Jesus." 

The  words  were  scarcely  a  hymn — they  were 
rather  the  long  plaintive  sigh  of  a  weary  human 
heart.  The  congregation,  which  now  quite  filled  the 
hall,  listened  in  perfect  silence.  The  majority  of 
faces  in  the  crowd  were  hard  and  stolid,  many  seemed 
visibly  bruised  by  the  bufferings  of  circumstance, 
all  were  care-worn  and  weary;  but  as  the  simple 
melody  rose  and  fell  a  soft  light  seemed  to  fall  upon 
them  all.  "Stealing  away — home — to  Jesus — " 
surely  it  was  the  inarticulate  cry  of  their  own  souls 
they  heard  in  the  plaintive  words.  And  then,  with- 
out announcement,  one  of  these  gray-garbed  women 
prayed,  in  a  voice  that  seemed  but  a  continuation  of 
the  music,  so  soft  was  it,  so  finely  toned  to  the  spirit 
of  the  hymn.  The  prayer  was  simplicity  itself;  it 
was  like  the  prayer  of  a  little  child.  Perhaps  that 
was  why  it  moved  the  people  so  much.  Perhaps  the 
hardest  and  roughest  of  them  had  memories  of  little 
children  long  since  estranged  or  lost.  Perhaps  that 
was  why  it  was  that  Jordan  felt  the  smart  of  un- 
accustomed tears  in  his  eyes ;  for  his  thoughts  went 
back  to  a  small  white  room  in  which  Olivia  had 
slept  as  a  little  girl,  and  a  white  bed  beside  which 
she  prayed. 

The  prayer  ended,  and  another  hymn  was  sung. 


330     A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

There  was  no  address,  no  sermon.  Palmer  had 
taken  the  chair  in  the  centre  of  the  platform,  but 
his  duties  were  merely  nominal.  He  called  upon 
one  and  another  of  his  strange  audience  to  speak, 
until  the  speaking  became  free  and  general.  Jordan 
sat  entranced.  He  had  never  heard  speaking  like 
this.  Men  who  by  their  own  confession  had  been 
drunkards,  thieves,  and  outcasts,  rose,  and  in  heart- 
felt words,  and  often  with  streaming  eyes,  narrated 
how  they  had  been  saved  and  delivered.  A  suicide 
told  of  how  a  woman's  hand  laid  upon  his  arm,  as 
he  was  hurrying  to  his  doom,  turned  him  back  to  life 
and  hope.  "She's  here  now,  God  bless  her !  She's 
sitting  not  far  from  me,  but  she  doesn't  want  to  be 
seen."  All  eyes  turned  in  the  direction  that  the 
speaker  indicated;  Jordan  unconsciously  rose  to 
look,  but  saw  only  a  shy  gray  figure  in  the  dim  light 
under  the  gallery. 

And  then,  while  he  thus  stood,  thrilled  and  ex- 
cited, from  this  same  dim  spot  under  the  gallery,  a 
man  rose,  and  began  to  speak  in  a  low,  clear  voice, 
and  with  the  unmistakable  accent  of  culture.  Jor- 
dan's face  became  deadly  pale.  It  seemed  as  though 
a  great  wave  had  passed  over  him,  blinding  and  be- 
wildering him;  and  through  this  obliterating  wave 
the  voice  reached  him  in  snatches.  "I  was  a  wan- 
derer,— a  prodigal — I  have  come  home "  so  the 

phrases  of  the  speaker  reached  him.  And  then,  in 
an  instant,  the  wave  passed,  and  he  knew  the  voice. 

"Oh,  my  boy,  my  boy !"  he  cried. 


HOME    AT    LAST  331 

It  was  all  that  he  could  say.  He  would  have 
fallen,  had  not  Stonecroft  put  his  arm  around  him. 
In  another  moment  other  arms  were  about  his  neck. 
The  shy  gray  figure  was  by  his  side,  the  long-lost 
son  had  found  his  father. 


XXII 
A  TRAGEDY 

THE  anonymous  letters  had  begun  again. 
They  had  also  become  more  definite  in 
their  threats,  and  more  vindictive  in 
their  character. 

Gaunt  read  them  and  laughed ;  but  both  Butler  and 
Palmer  regarded  them  as  a  grave  menace. 

The  exciting  cause  of  these  new  threats  was  not 
far  to  seek.  Butler  had  succeeded  by  his  trenchant 
exposures  in  The  Daily  Light  in  arousing  New 
York  to  one  of  those  brief  passions  of  reforming 
energy  which  are  so  characteristic  of  the  volatile 
city.  Public  opinion  had  been  roused,  and  had  fur- 
nished the  necessary  dynamic  for  the  enforcement  of 
law.  There  had  been  police-raids  of  houses  devoted 
to  gambling  and  worse  things;  saloons  had  been 
closed,  and  some  of  the  worst  offenders  had  been 
fined  or  sent  to  the  penitentiary.  One  result  had 
been  the  enrolment  of  thousands  of  new  members  in 
the  League  of  Service  Many  men  of  influence  who 
cared  relatively  little  for  the  religious  aims  of  the 
League  recognized  its  social  value,  and  joined  its 
ranks.  The  pulpits  of  the  city  rang  with  denuncia- 

332 


A    TRAGEDY  333 

tions  of  public  evils.  Even  the  papers  most  hostile 
to  Gaunt  were  silent,  and  others  hitherto  neutral  had 
indulged  in  cautious  commendation. 

But  in  that  dark  underworld  of  vice  and  crime, 
whose  kingdom  Gaunt  had  invaded,  there  was  the 
growing  murmur  of  conspiracy  and  retaliation.  The 
old  Ephesian  cry  rose,  "Our  craft  is  in  danger,"  and 
it  was  all  the  more  to  be  dreaded  because  it  did  not 
utter  itself  in  public  clamour,  but  in  whispered  wrath. 
In  that  dark  and  evil  street  where  the  Mission  stood 
and  the  Sisters  of  the  Poor  toiled,  there  were  omi- 
nous signs  of  dissatisfaction.  One  night  the  windows 
of  the  hall  were  broken;  on  another  night  an  attempt 
was  made  to  fire  the  building.  The  gray  sisters  went 
about  their  work  unmoved,  but  they  noticed  sadly 
that  they  now  met  more  scowling  than  smiling  faces. 
Butler  knew  the  peril,  but  he  recognized  that  the 
wisest  way  of  meeting  it  was  to  show  no  sign  of 
fear;  for  the  first  sign  of  fear  is  the  coward's  signal 
to  attack. 

Palmer  was  more  acutely  conscious  of  the  peril 
than  Butler,  and  for  this  there  was  a  reason  in  his 
growing  love  for  Olivia  Jordan.  The  figure  of  the 
fair  girl  filled  his  thoughts,  and  often  haunted  his 
dreams.  Again  and  again  he  woke  in  terror  from 
the  vision  of  her  peril,  but  what  could  he  do?  She 
met  his  hinted  fears  with  the  confident  and  cheerful 
smile  of  a  courageous  child.  Like  Gaunt  she  smiled 
at  threats,  and  that,  indeed,  was  the  temper  of  all 
these  tender  women. 


334      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

"No  one  will  hurt  us,"  she  said.  "Our  frailty  is 
our  protection." 

Palmer  listened,  and  began  to  understand  why  the 
records  of  martyrology  are  so  full  of  women's 
names. 

"You  have  disregarded  our  warnings,"  ran  the 
latest  anonymous  letter.  "You  must  now  accept 
the  consequences.  The  blow  which  we  shall  strike 
will  be  sudden  and  sure.  You  cannot  escape  it." 

Gaunt,  Butler,  and  Palmer  each  read  this  letter 
in  turn.  They  were  seated  at  a  table  in  the  little 
room  which  Gaunt  used  for  consultation  and  corre- 
spondence. 

"What  do  you  make  of  it?"  said  Palmer,  anx- 
iously. 

"It  is  of  a  piece  with  all  the  other  letters,"  replied 
Butler.  "They  are  written  by  one  hand.  This  may 
mean  that  they  simply  express  the  intentions  of  an 
individual,  or  that  they  are  the  manifesto  of  a  group 
of  men.  I  suspect  that  the  latter  explanation  is  the 
true  one." 

"Then  you  think  that  there  is  a  conspiracy  against 
us?" 

"I  do,  and  more  than  that  it  is  not  a  conspiracy  of 
ignorant  men.  If  any  attack  is  made  upon  us,  it  will 
no  doubt  be  made  by  ignorant  men,  but  they  will 
be  the  tools  of  intelligent  and  probably  wealthy 
men." 

"And  what  can  we  do?" 

"Simply  nothing,  except  sit  tight,"  said  Butler, 


A   TRAGEDY  335 

with  a  grim  smile.  "We  can't  wear  chain  armour 
under  our  clothes,  it  is  out  of  fashion,  and  it  would 
be  a  confession  of  weakness  to  invoke  police  protec- 
tion. We  must  just  take  our  risks  and  be  of  good 
courage." 

About  a  week  after  this  conversation  Gordon  died. 
The  old  man  had  been  busy  until  his  last  hour. 
After  a  long  day's  work  he  went  to  bed  at  midnight, 
and  died  in  his  sleep. 

When  Gordon's  will  was  opened  it  was  found  to 
contain  one  curious  clause.  He  requested  that  the 
only  service  held  for  him  should  be  conducted  in 
the  Mission  Hall,  which  was  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  the  hall  in  which  he  himself  had  preached  five-and- 
twenty  years  before  on  his  secession  from  the 
Church.  In  his  death  he  wished  to  be  identified  with 
the  poor.  He  directed  that  his  funeral  should  be 
of  the  plainest  possible  description;  that  his  bearers 
should  be  six  poor  men  chosen  from  the  Mission 
converts,  that  Gaunt  should  conduct  any  service  of 
a  public  character  that  might  be  arranged;  and 
finally  he  expressed  the  desire  that  those  who  had 
loved  him  would  not  be  betrayed  by  their  affections 
into  speaking  any  words  of  adulation  over  one  whose 
mistakes  had  been  many,  whose  acts  of  wisdom  few, 
whose  sole  claim  to  recollection  was  the  sincerity  of 
his  unfulfilled  intentions. 

"How  like  him !"  said  Gaunt,  as  he  read  these  last 
instructions.  "While  most  of  us  are  filled  with  a 
lively  sense  of  our  value  to  society,  I  believe  Gordon 


336      A    PROPHET    IN   BABYLON 

had  not  the  least  idea  of  what  his  life  meant  to  the 
world." 

"He  saw  too  widely  to  see  himself,"  said  Palmer. 

"He  sees  now  the  intention  of  his  life  fulfilled," 
replied  Gaunt. 

Then  each  felt  that  any  further  words  were  sacri- 
lege in  the  presence  of  that  inscrutable  and  majestic 
mask  of  death. 

Gaunt  sat  long  that  night  in  the  quiet  room  where 
the  dead  man  had  worked,  busy  in  the  examination 
of  his  papers.  These  papers  consisted  of  fragments 
of  autobiography,  notes  upon  various  scholastic  and 
philosophic  problems,  prayers,  meditations,  and 
diaries.  As  Gaunt  read  each  faded  page  there  came 
to  him  a  new  sense  of  the  wonderful  wealth  of  en- 
ergy and  wisdom  compressed  in  such  a  life  as  Gor- 
don's, and  he  remembered  Palmer's  saying  that 
Gordon  saw  widely  because  he  did  not  see  himself. 
How  rare  was  that  temper!  How  few  were  those 
whose  lives  were  not  pivoted  on  egoism!  He  saw 
now  what  was  the  real  secret  of  the  majesty  and 
sweetness  of  Gordon's  character:  it  was  his  total 
self-effacement.  He  had  striven,  as  all  brave  men 
must  needs  strive,  for  the  things  which  they  count 
worthy,  but  he  had  never  made  personal  success  his 
goal,  or  measured  the  worth  of  his  quest  by  the 
degree  of  his  success  or  failure.  He  had  been  so 
sure  of  the  triumph  of  God's  purpose  that  he  had 
never  imagined  himself  necessary  to  that  triumph. 
Therefore,  he  had  dwelt  in  peace,  incapable  alike  of 


A   TRAGEDY  337 

the  intoxication  of  success  or  the  depression  of 
failure.  And,  therefore,  also  he  had  kept  the 
prophetic  vision;  for  only  those  who  see  not  them- 
selves can  see  God. 

Gaunt  felt  himself  humbled  before  the  testimony 
of  Gordon's  life.  In  the  midnight  silence  he  ex- 
amined his  own  heart,  and  put  to  himself  inevitable 
questions.  Was  not  he  in  danger  of  this  intoxication 
of  success?  Had  not  he  unconsciously  conceived 
himself  as  necessary  to  the  fulfilment  of  God's  inten- 
tions? He  thought  he  recognized  in  himself  what 
certainly  no  one  had  noticed — a  certain  coarsen- 
ing of  spiritual  fibre  since  his  cause  had  triumphed. 
It  was  not  pride,  it  was  not  complacency;  it  was 
hard  indeed  to  define  it,  unless  as  a  certain  dulling 
of  the  finer  sensitiveness.  Amid  the  agonies  of  his 
renunciation,  when  he  let  his  old  life  go  at  the  call 
of  truth,  he  had,  nevertheless,  been  conscious  of 
rapturous  moments  of  elation.  They  were  the  mo- 
ments when  his  naked  soul  clung  close  to  God, 
knowing  no  other  refuge.  But  it  seemed  to  him 
that  his  clinging  to  God  was  less  ardent  now.  Did 
not  this  imply  that  he  saw  God  less  clearly,  be- 
cause he  had  looked  from  God  to  himself? 

He  realized  now,  as  he  meditated  on  Gordon's 
character,  that  those  very  qualities  which  had  com- 
posed the  noblest  elements  of  that  character  were 
the  products  of  outward  failure.  Fragrance  from 
the  bruised  herb,  wine  from  the  crushed  grape,  a 
world's  faith  from  the  Cross  of  Desolation — so  the 


338      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

story  of  the  world's  redeemers  had  ever  run.  Assur- 
edly if  that  story  of  the  tragic  centuries  was  to  be 
believed,  success  was  the  one  fatal  calamity  in  life, 
defeat  the  true  redemption. 

Yet  he  could  not  honestly  pray  for  defeat;  he 
could  not  even  ask  for  such  a  life  as  Gordon's,  so 
far  as  its  outward  results  went.  But  he  saw  now 
the  thing  he  might  pray  for,  and  the  goal  he  might 
strive  for — it  was  complete  self-effacement.  He 
saw  that  he  must  no  longer  think  of  himself  as 
necessary  even  to  the  movement  which  he  led.  No  .' 
man  was  necessary  to  the  divine  purpose.  He  must 
count  not  his  life  dear  unto  him,  he  must  be  willing 
either  to  succeed  or  fail,  to  live  or  die,  as  God  should 
decide — that  was  surely  the  last  message  of  his 
great  dead  friend  which  reached  the  heart  of  Gaunt 
in  that  midnight  hour.  He  bowed  silently  beside 
the  dead  prophet,  and  rose  purified  and  refreshed. 

In  that  intense  hour  Gordon  preached  the  last 
sermon  of  his  noble  life.  It  was  not  preached  in 
vain. 

The  effect  of  these  midnight  thoughts  was  a  new 
spirit  of  composure  in  Gaunt's  mind.  It  was  most 
clearly  manifest  in  his  attitude  to  the  dangers  that 
threatened  him.  Hitherto  his  attitude  had  been  one 
of  cheerful  defiance.  He  had  been  ready  to  chal- 
lenge the  enemy,  he  had  felt  something  of  that  thrill 
of  elation  which  all  strong  and  courageous  men 
experience  in  the  face  of  danger.  His  courage  still 
remained,  but  all  lust  of  battle  had  left  him.  He 


A   TRAGEDY  339 

thought  of  his  enemies  with  commiseration;  it  was 
their  folly  rather  than  their  hatred  which  he  saw. 
Things  would  happen  as  they  would  happen ;  as  for 
him,  he  heard  the  mystic  voice  which  said:  "What 
is  that  to  thee?  Follow  thou  Me." 

The  following  morning  was  spent  in  consultation 
upon  the  best  method  of  carrying  out  Gordon's  last 
wishes.  Gordon's  connection  with  the  League  of 
Service,  and  his  later  writings  in  which  he  had  ad- 
vocated its  purposes,  had  naturally  given  him 
notoriety.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was  no  longer 
a  forgotten  prophet,  but  rather  a  prophet  who  had 
come  into  his  kingdom.  Thus  his  death  was  a  public 
event,  and  it  was  clear  that  it  would  be  impossible 
to  divest  his  funeral  of  a  public  character. 

"There  are  at  least  five  thousand  of  our  people 
who  will  wish  to  show  the  last  tokens  of  respect  to 
Gordon,"  said  Palmer.  "In  all  probability  you 
might  treble  that  number,  and  it  would  be  a  safe 
estimate. 

"The  Mission  Hall  seats  only  eight  hundred;  it 
might  hold  a  thousand,"  he  added. 

"That's  not  the  only  difficulty,"  said  Gaunt. 
"Gordon  wished  to  be  numbered  with  the  poor  in 
his  death.  It  is  impossible  to  mistake  his  wishes. 
It  would  be  entirely  contrary  to  his  wishes  if  we 
filled  the  hall  with  our  friends — and  his — but  shut 
out  the  poor." 

Butler  had  sat  silent  during  this  discussion.  His 
face  was  anxious. 


340      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

"Have  you  no  counsel  to  give?"  said  Gaunt,  with 
a  smile. 

"I  had  rather  state  facts,"  he  replied,  quietly.  "It 
will  be  time  enough  for  counsel  when  we  get  our 
facts  clear." 

"Well,  what  have  you  to  say?"  said  Gaunt. 

"First,  that  we  are  bound  to  respect  Gordon's 
wishes.  The  service  must  be  held  in  the  Mission 
Hall,  and  the  actual  converts  of  the  Mission  are 
the  first  people  to  be  invited.  Gordon  loved  them; 
many  of  them  loved  him.  It  is  quite  extraordinary 
that  he  should  have  had  so  great  an  influence  over 
them,  for  his  visits  to  the  Mission  were  not  frequent. 
I  confess  that  I  feel  a  kind  of  noble  pathos  in  the 
fact.  Five-and-twenty  years  ago  he  tried  to  reach 
these  very  people  and  failed.  In  his  last  days  he 
found  the  way  to  their  hearts.  We  may  mourn  him 
deeply,  but  none  will  mourn  him  more  deeply  than 
these  poor  people.  He  was  the  prophet  of  the  poor; 
the  poor  have  a  right  to  their  prophet." 

"Yes,  that  is  certain,"  said  Gaunt. 

"But  something  else  is  certain,  too,"  said  Butler. 
"You  can't  get  these  poor  people  together  in  the 
daytime.  They  can  only  come  at  night.  There- 
fore, the  service  must  be  held  in  the  evening.  That 
is  where  the  element  of  danger  begins.  You  know 
what  the  street  is  like  at  night.  I  have  reason  to 
think  that  the  saloons  will  take  this  opportunity 
of  revenging  themselves  upon  us.  It  is  a  unique 
opportunity.  They  will  have  us  all  bunched  to- 


A   TRAGEDY  34i 

gather,  and  God  knows  what  violence  they  may 
attempt/' 

"Do  you  really  anticipate  violence  ?"  said  Palmer. 

"I  do,"  said  Butler.  "You  will  remember  what 
I  told  you  about  my  friend  the  ex-pugilist.  He 
knows  all  the  movements  of  the  district,  and  he  tells 
me  he  is  certain  that  our  enemies  meditate  violence." 

"Well,  we  must  take  our  risks,"  said  Gaunt,  with 
a  smile.  "They  are  your  own  words." 

"What  if  the  risk  is  death?"  said  Butler,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Then  we  can  but  die,"  replied  Gaunt. 

"Very  good,"  said  Butler.  "I  expected  you  to  say 
that.  But  I  thought  it  my  duty  to  warn  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gaunt.  He  grasped  Butler's 
hand  in  a  long  embrace.  Then  the  moment  of  tense 
emotion  passed,  and  the  three  friends  with  complete 
composure  returned  to  the  task  of  planning  the 
obsequies  of  Gordon. 

When  Butler  had  conjectured  that  many  thou- 
sands of  adherents  of  the  League  would  wish  to  be 
present  at  Gordon's  funeral,  he  had  not  overesti- 
mated the  public  interest.  On  the  day  after  Gor- 
don's death  the  Press  was  full  of  articles  on  his 
career,  memoranda  of  his  conversations,  estimates  of 
his  character  and  influence,  and  these  were  almost 
wholly  eulogistic.  To  Gordon  had  come  the  rare 
good  fortune  of  having  outlived  the  enmities  which 
his  early  career  had  excited.  Of  his  former  an- 
tagonists but  few  were  left,  and  they  were  no  longer 


342      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

antagonists.  These  also  now  joined  in  the  general 
acclaim.  Each  mail  brought  Gaunt  letters  of  appre- 
ciation for  the  character  of  Gordon,  and  in  every 
instance  the  writers  of  the  letters  expressed  the  de- 
sire to  take  some  humble  part  in  the  funeral  of  the 
dead  prophet.  As  Gaunt  read  this  vast  mass  of 
correspondence  it  became  clear  that  in  spite  of 
Gordon's  deprecation  of  any  public  ceremony,  never- 
theless his  obsequies  were  bound  to  be  attended 
with  a  great  popular  demonstration  of  respect  and 
affection. 

Once  convinced  of  this,  Gaunt  did  his  utmost  to 
make  the  demonstration  effective. 

He  fixed  Saturday  night  for  the  simple  service 
in  the  Mission  Hall,  and  invited  all  the  people  in 
the  habit  of  attending  the  Mission,  especially  the 
known  converts,  to  be  present.  Members  of  the 
League  were  requested  to  line  the  street,  and  to  wait 
reverently  for  the  conclusion  of  the  service.  At 
the  close  of  the  service  the  body  of  Gordon  was  to  be 
conveyed  to  Madison  Square  Garden,  accompanied 
by  the  members  of  the  League  in  procession.  In 
that  vast  auditorium,  which  had  seen  the  birth  of 
the  League,  the  body  would  rest  through  Saturday 
night;  early  on  Sunday  morning  it  would  be  laid 
to  rest. 

"It  is  not  often  New  York  honours  a  prophet/' 
said  Gaunt.  "Gordon  would  at  any  time  have  given 
his  body  to  be  burned  for  love  of  the  people.  I  think 
he  would  be  willing,  if  he  could  know,  to  give  his 


A   TRAGEDY  343 

body  to  this  brief  honour,  if  a  single  heart  might 
thereby  be  touched  with  a  single  good  desire/' 

And  now  the  Saturday  night  had  come.  The 
great  city  clothed  itself  with  light,  and  through  the 
brilliant  streets  rolled  a  glittering  river  of  frivolity. 
But  here  and  there  in  that  vivacious  crowd  other 
figures  were  discerned,  whose  goal  was  not  the 
restaurant  or  the  theatre.  They  were  people  of 
earnest  brows  and  sober  dress;  they  were  all  moving 
eastward,  and  upon  each  breast  was  a  Cross  of  Stars. 
They  gathered  from  far  and  near;  many  had  trav- 
elled from  distant  cities;  they  represented  all  grades 
of  society;  but  the  same  glad  and  earnest  look  dis- 
tinguished each.  The  common  goal  of  all  these 
pilgrims  of  the  night  was  a  plain  mission  hall,  in 
which  lay  one  who  even  in  death  drew  them  by  the 
magnetism  of  reverence  and  love. 

Beyond  Fourteenth  Street  their  numbers  became 
apparent.  They  composed  a  multitude  of  many 
thousands.  Yet  there  was  not  the  least  disorder. 
Each  took  his  place  in  the  long  double  line  which 
garrisoned  the  street;  each  stood  in  perfect  silence. 
Presently  the  whisper  passed  along  the  ranks  that 
the  service  for  Gordon  had  commenced,  and  each 
man  stood  with  uncovered  head,  and  the  women 
bowed  their  faces  in  sympathetic  prayer. 

In  the  Mission  Hall  itself  the  scene  was  one  not 
to  be  forgotten.  The  hall  was  completely  filled  with 
the  poor.  Such  a  crowd  of  tragic  faces:  some 
seamed  with  devastating  passions,  some  simply  worn 


344      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

with  years  of  fruitless  struggle;  such  eyes — some 
sadly  joyous,  tear-filled,  yet  bright  with  new-kindled 
love;  others  pathetic  with  the  pleading  of  defeat 
against  the  weakness  of  the  will;  such  tokens  of 
the  ill-usage  of  life,  in  bowed  shoulders,  narrow 
chests,  coarsened  hands;  here  were,  indeed,  "the 
people  of  the  Abyss" — 'the  people  of  that  populous, 
dim  underworld,  whose  very  existence  is  unsus- 
pected by  the  well-fed  and  the  happy.  And  yet  in 
the  general  aspect  of  that  strange  throng  there  was 
more  of  hope  than  sadness.  Deep-sunk  as  they  were, 
the  day-spring  from  on  high  had  visited  them,  and 
on  their  patient  brows  the  glow  of  hope's  morning 
burned. 

And  for  this  strange  congregation,  all  that  was 
meant  by  light  and  hope  was  represented  in  the  quiet 
dust  that  slumbered  in  a  flower-covered  coffin  which 
scattered  on  the  air  the  fragrance  of  life — an  emblem 
of  beauty  rather  than  decay. 

Few  of  these  people  had  known  Gordon  person- 
ally. Some  had  heard  his  voice  on  the  rare  occa- 
sions when  he  had  spoken  in  the  hall;  some  had 
grasped  his  hand;  and  here  and  there  were  those 
who  had  owed  their  souls  to  his  entreaties  and  his 
prayers.  But  there  was  not  one  who  did  not  under- 
stand the  meaning  of  Gordon's  life.  They  knew  that 
he  had  loved  them,  that  he  had  suffered  for  them, 
and  that  his  life  had  spent  itself  for  their  enrich- 
ment. To  these  who  had  never  touched  his  hand, 
he  was  less  a  man  than  a  symbol.  He  was  the 


A   TRAGEDY  345 

symbol  of  love,  of  pity,  of  a  more  than  human  faith 
in  them;  of  kindness  in  a  world  of  hatred,  of  help- 
fulness and  justice  in  a  world  which  they  had  found 
hostile  and  unjust.  And  so  from  his  silence  there 
breathed  the  encouragement  of  brotherhood;  and  the 
fragrance  of  the  flowers  that  covered  him  was  a 
perfume  blown  from  unknown  accessible  Edens 
which  he  had  bade  them  enter. 

The  Sisters  had  begun  to  sing.  Gray-robed,  quiet- 
eyed,  they  stood  behind  the  banked  flowers,  and  it 
was  as  though  the  flowers  sang — so  soft,  so  tender, 
was  the  music. 

"Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting 

I  shall  be  soon; 

Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting, 
Beyond  the  pulse's  fever-beating, 

I  shall  be  soon. 

"Beyond  the  gathering  and  the  strewing, 

I  shall  be  soon ; 

Beyond  the  ebbing  and  the  flowing, 
Beyond  the  coming  and  the  going, 

I  shall  be  soon." 

And  then  the  voice  of  Gaunt,  low,  musical,  in- 
tense, began  to  speak.  Of  Gordon  himself  he  said 
scarcely  a  word;  rather  he  spoke  as  Gordon  might 
have  spoken  to  them.  "Beyond  the  gathering  and 
the  strewing" — ah,  it  was  that  they  had  to  think 
of.  With  delicately  tender  touches  he  drew  back 
the  curtain  of  that  unseen  world.  It  was  their  world, 
the  world  where  all  who  lived  rightly  would  meet, 
when  the  weary  comings  and  goings  of  this  life 


346     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

were  over.  They  listened  entranced.  They  seemed 
to  see  themselves,  no  longer  disinherited,  walking 
among  happy  throngs  in  tranquil  light,  and  looking 
back  with  a  kind  of  rapturous  commiseration  on 
the  distant  world  which  they  had  left.  Oh,  to  be 
there,  there! 

"Beyond  the  parting  and  the  meeting, 
Beyond  the  farewell  and  the  greeting." 

The  voice  of  Gaunt  broke  into  a  sob,  and  ceased. 
Then,  as  though  recalling  him,  and  all  of  them,  to 
the  present,  the  choir  began  to  sing  the  hymn  of  the 
League,  "When  I  Survey  the  Wondrous  Cross." 

The  doors  of  the  hall  were  flung  back.  The  hymn 
was  taken  up  by  the  waiting  lines  of  the  Leaguers 
in  the  street.  Like  a  solemn  chant  it  rolled  from 
lip  to  lip  along  that  mile  or  more  of  mourners. 

From  the  doors  of  the  hall  the  Sisters  came  forth, 
singing.  Behind  them,  all  that  was  mortal  of  Gor- 
don, followed,  and  behind  the  flower-covered  bier 
walked  Gaunt,  Palmer,  and  Butler. 

As  they  passed  into  the  street  a  man  pushed 
through  the  crowd  and  whispered  a  word  in  Butler's 
ear.  The  man  was  the  ex-pugilist.  Butler's  face 
paled.  He  moved  closer  to  Gaunt,  shook  his  head, 
and  the  procession  swept  on. 

It  was  just  ten  o'clock.  Butler  noticed  that  about 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  Mission  Hall  where  the 
street  narrowed,  the  crowd  seemed  impenetrable. 
At  this  point  the  lines  of  the  Leaguers  were  broken; 


A   TRAGEDY  347 

the  crowd  swayed  dangerously,  and  there  were 
shouts  and  jeering  voices.  Every  window  was  wide 
open,  and  the  people  leaned  out,  mostly  silent,  some 
few  shouting  boisterous  jests  to  the  crowd  beneath. 
The  crowd  was  densest  at  a  point  where  a  saloon 
stood,  which  the  League  had  closed. 

Butler  instantly  recognized  the  danger  point.  It 
was  to  warn  him  that  mischief  would  be  attempted 
at  this  point  that  the  ex-pugilist  had  sought  him. 

His  first  thought  was  for  Gaunt.  He  seized  the 
arm  of  Palmer. 

"Close  up  round  him,  men,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper. 

Gaunt,  quite  unconscious  of  their  intention,  was 
at  that  moment  about  a  yard  ahead  of  his  friends. 
His  head  was  bare;  he  was  singing  with  complete 
absorption  the  great  hymn  which  had  witnessed  the 
birth  of  the  League. 

Butler  and  Palmer  sprang  forward  to  his  side. 
But  it  was  too  late.  At  that  moment  from  an  upper 
window  a  pistol-shot  rang. 

Gaunt  fell  with  a  bullet  in  his  breast.  Fifty  yards 
away,  his  followers,  quite  unconscious  of  what  had 
happened,  were  still  singing: 

"When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross 
On  which  the  Prince  of  Glory  died, 
My  richest  gain  I  count  but  loss, 
And  pour  contempt  on  all  my  pride." 


XXIII 
THE  VALLEY  OF  THE   SHADOW 

HE  lay  in  a  narrow  bed  in  an  unfamiliar 
room.  The  walls  were  without  adorn- 
ment, the  floors  bare;  there  was  scarcely 
more  furniture  than  might  be  found  in  a  monk's 
cell.  The  room  breathed  an  air  of  austere  cleanli- 
ness; it  produced  also  the  impression  of  loneliness. 
Two  high  windows  let  in  the  light;  each  framed  a 
patch  of  blue  sky.  But  for  that  reassuring  patch  of 
sky  he  might  have  imagined  that  he  lay  in  some  for- 
gotten vestibule  of  silence,  far  from  the  human 
world. 

He  listened  eagerly  for  some  sound,  however 
trifling,  that  might  assure  him  that  he  was  not  ut- 
terly forsaken.  For  a  long  time — it  seemed  a  whole 
day,  though  it  was  but  a  few  seconds — no  sound 
came.  Then  a  bell  rang  in  a  distant  corridor.  He 
heard  a  quick  footstep,  the  closing  of  a  door,  and 
the  sound  of  water  dripping  from  a  tap.  Then  an 
obliterating  wave  of  sleep  rolled  over  him.  At  first 
he  tried  to  push  it  back ;  then  he  yielded  to  it,  though 
with  infinite  reluctance.  He  had  the  sensation  of 
drowning,  of  sinking  deep  and  deeper  in  some  ele- 
ment that  was  strange  to  him  and  half-repugnant. 

348 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  349 

That  sound  of  water  dripping  from  a  tap  pursued 
him.  It  was  a  maddening  sound.  He  had  a  recol- 
lection of  something  horrible  he  had  once  heard  of : 
a  torture  by  water,  a  thing  much  more  terrible  than 
torture  by  fire.  Drip — 'drip — drop;  a  pause  full  of 
menace;  then  drip — drip — drop,  again;  and  each 
drop  became  a  sharp  cold  weapon,  puncturing  its 
way  into  the  fibres  of  the  brain.  Then — oh,  mirac- 
ulous relief! — the  sound  became  metamorphosed 
into  a  noise  of  running  brooks,  the  rippling  of  waves 
along  a  lake  shore,  the  regular  throb  of  heavy  seas 
breaking  on  a  beach  of  sand.  It  was  sunrise,  and  the 
brook  glittered  in  the  fresh  light;  it  was  noon,  and 
the  lake  shone  like  glass  mingled  with  fire;  it  was 
night,  and  the  stars  stooped  like  fire-flies,  and  shone 
reflected  in  the  smooth,  green  slope  of  curving 
waves.  And  then,  again,  he  heard  that  insistent 
drip — drip — drop  of  water  from  a  tap. 

The  sound  once  more  grew  faint,  and  it  seemed 
now  that  he  was  caught  away  by  some  swift  wind; 
yet  still  he  dreamed  of  water. 

He  saw  great  forests,  "motionless  in  an  ecstasy  of 
rain,"  and  his  delighted  body  drank  through  every 
pore  the  delicious  coolness.  The  silver  drops  smote 
his  naked  flesh;  a  dark  cloud  broke  over  him  in 
torrents  of  swift  rain;  like  Elijah  the  Tishbite  he 
ran  against  a  racing  deluge,  quivering  with  each 
shock  and  buffet  of  the  storm,  yet  elated,  strangely 
glad.  There  passed  before  him,  like  a  rapid  pan- 
orama, all  the  scenes  which  he  had  ever  known, 


350     A   PROPHET   IN   BABYLON 

associated  with  the  memory  of  water.  He  was  a 
boy  again,  plunging  deep  into  the  dark  swimming- 
pool  beneath  the  great  elms.  Now  it  was  a  trout- 
stream  he  followed,  a  clear,  brown  stream,  flowing 
over  golden  pebbles;  now  it  was  a  lake  he  saw, 
shining  like  a  little  pool  of  light  amid  dark  woods. 
From  these  he  was  whirled  away  to  scenes  im- 
mensely distant,  yet  apparently  near.  He  was  sail- 
ing on  a  Swiss  lake  at  sunset;  he  stood  beside  an 
English  mountain  tarn,  over  which  cool,  gray  clouds 
gathered;  he  leaned  from  a  Venetian  gondola,  trail- 
ing his  hands  in  little  waves  full  of  soft,  green  fire. 
Always  water — he  could  not  have  enough  of  it. 
Every  nerve  of  his  body  cried  for  it.  And,  then, 
lake  and  river  faded  out;  he  heard  no  more  the  rip- 
pling sound  of  wave  or  current — only  the  drip — 
drip — drop  of  water  from  a  tap,  and  he  groaned. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  a  new  element  in 
these  fantastic  wanderings:  was  he  not  really  en- 
gaged in  taking  farewell  of  the  world?  Yes,  that 
must  be  it.  His  spirit,  poised  for  flight,  could  not 
go  till  it  had  revisited  every  scene  of  former  emo- 
tion or  delight.  He  was  like  the  youth  whose  fate 
calls  him  to  a  new  life  in  distant  lands,  who  spends 
his  last  hours  in  a  pilgrimage  of  farewell  to  familiar 
scenes.  He  runs  from  room  to  room;  looks  long  at 
each,  as  if  he  would  impress  upon  his  memory  the 
exact  position  of  each  familiar  object;  paces  silently 
along  the  garden  paths,  noting  where  each  flower 
grows,  recollecting  childish  games,  happy  follies, 


THE  VALLEY  OFTHESHADOW      351 

tearful  silences  after  rebuke — till  every  grass-blade 
in  the  garden,  every  object  in  the  house,  seems  to  be 
part  of  his  life  and  part  of  its  secrets.  Even  so, 
Gaunt  felt  his  spirit  move  with  the  anguish  of  fare- 
well about  the  house  of  life.  He  could  not  go  until 
he  had  visited  every  place  or  scene  once  loved.  He 
must  impress  them  on  his  memory;  it  was  the  only 
treasure  he  could  take  with  him  into  other  worlds. 
Then  he  would  go — content. 

The  thought  brought  with  it  no  fear.  Neither 
did  it  create  any  sense  of  wonder  or  anticipation. 
He  had  become  a  creature  without  volition.  He 
lay  quite  passive  now,  like  a  tired  swimmer  who  can 
strive  no  more.  He  felt  a  faint  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment that  dying — if  this  indeed  were  dying — should, 
after  all,  prove  an  affair  so  commonplace.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  in  those  days  of  health  and  strength, 
which  were  so  incredibly  remote,  he  had  always 
thought  of  this  hour  as  something  intense,  sublime, 
even  ecstatic.  There  should  surely  be  heavenly 
voices,  soft  music,  the  air  winnowed  by  angel  wings, 
the  opening  of  the  gates  of  dawn — and  behold  it  was 
nothing  more  than  the  quiet  sense  of  sinking  in  a 
soft  wave,  an  infinite  composure,  a  delicious  relaxa- 
tion of  nerves  and  muscles  tired  with  long  effort. 
He  found  himself  smiling  both  at  his  former  terrors 
and  his  former  hopes. 

The  strangest  thing  of  all  appeared  to  be  the  com- 
pleteness and  rapidity  with  which  his  relations  to 
the  world  had  altered.  He  remembered  that  he  had 


352      A    PROPHET   IN    BABYLON 

once  been  very  eager  and  anxious  about  a  multitude 
of  matters,  the  very  nature  of  which  he  could  not 
recall.  All  these  things  seemed  quite  unimportant 
now.  The  world  was  like  a  ship  that  had  sunk 
at  sea;  utter  silence  and  oblivion  had  closed  over 
all  that  strenuous,  busy  shipboard  life.  There  lay 
round  him  only  the  silence  of  the  stars,  and  the 
infinite  curve  of  far  horizons.  It  seemed  incredible 
that  he  had  ever  lived  among  voices,  tasks,  duties, 
fierce  exigencies,  cruel  perturbations;  they  had  dwin- 
dled into  such  nothingness  that  he  could  hardly  be- 
lieve they  had  existed.  If  they  did  exist,  which 
he  doubted,  he  could  not  wish  again  to  move  among 
them.  In  some  marvellous  way  he  had  attained  to 
ultimate  tranquillity;  why  should  he  renounce  it? 

Thereupon  a  long  and  painful  argument  arose  in 
his  mind.  It  seemed  that  far  down  in  some  dark 
corner  of  his  consciousness  a  persistent  voice  bade 
him  live.  It  affirmed  his  power  to  live.  It  affirmed 
his  duty.  He  strove  weakly  to  resist  it.  Yet  all 
the  while  he  felt  as  though  the  tide  beneath  him  had 
turned,  and  was  slowly  drifting  him  back  to  the 
shores  of  life.  He  was  no  longer  at  peace,  no  longer 
sinking  quietly  in  a  sea  of  sleep.  Something  harsh 
and  violent  clutched  at  him ;  a  weight  of  gray  horror 
pressed  upon  his  eyeballs ;  a  flash  of  flaming  pain  ran 
along  his  nerves.  He  shuddered,  cried,  woke.  His 
eyes  took  in  slowly  the  reality  of  things  tangible — • 
stone-coloured  walls,  a  yellow  floor  on  which  a 
spot  of  sunlight  lay,  two  high  windows,  each  with 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW   353 

a  patch  of  blue  sky.  And  once  more  he  heard  the 
sound  of  a  bell  far  away,  and  the  drip — drip — drop 
of  water  from  a  tap. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  of  certain  human  fig- 
ures that  stood  beside  him  and  stooped  over  him. 
One  was  a  grave,  dark  figure;  there  were  two  others 
dressed  in  white.  They  were  speaking  among  them- 
selves in  a  low  whisper.  He  felt  a  strong  desire  to 
communicate  with  them.  His  lips  framed  agonized 
interrogations,  but  to  his  dismay  no  sound  was  audi- 
ble. It  was  clear  they  could  not  hear  him,  for  they 
did  not  turn  to  him;  and  yet  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  was  shouting.  A  horrible  conviction  seized  him 
that  he  was  already  forgotten,  as  a  dead  man,  out 
of  mind.  What  surer  proof  of  death  could  there  be 
than  this  utter  failure  of  his  to  communicate  with 
the  living?  He  summoned  all  his  strength  for  a 
more  intense  effort  at  speech.  The  sweat  stood  upon 
his  forehead,  and  the  muscles  of  his  throat  ached. 
The  effort  was  vain.  He  had  not  been  heard.  The 
figures  seemed  to  dissolve,  to  withdraw,  and  at  last 
entirely  vanished.  He  was  once  more  alone  in  some 
intangible  and  dim  world,  which  impressed  him  by 
its  vagueness  and  its  vastness. 

At  first  he  was  conscious  of  a  quality  that  was 
almost  pleasure.  Time  and  space  were  alike  gone. 
His  body  was  volatile;  it  floated  like  a  feather  here 
and  there  upon  the  obscure  winds.  It  seemed  part 
of  the  vagueness  and  the  vastness,  a  floating  bubble 
on  the  waves  of  an  eternal  sea.  The  sense  of  pleas- 


354      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

ure  which  he  felt  was  derived  from  his  own  entire 
impotence.  He  was  no  longer  required  to  strive 
and  struggle;  there  was  no  goal  that  he  sought 
to  win;  the  imperious  need  for  doing  and  acting, 
once  so  strong  in  him,  was  wholly  gone.  Things 
were  done  to  him;  things  were  done  for  him;  he 
himself  did  nothing.  He  lay  calm  in  effortless  quies- 
cence, he  floated  in  an  element  of  peace  ineffable. 
He  had  no  desires,  no  hopes,  no  fears;  he  was  be- 
yond them  all. 

They  came  back,  however;  this  was  the  misery, 
that  they  always  came  back.  Just  when  the  sweet 
intoxication  of  his  utter  restfulness  seemed  com- 
plete, it  always  happened  that  the  spell  was  broken. 
Something  tugged  at  his  heart-strings;  a  turning 
of  some  minute  wheel  in  the  loom  of  life  knitted  the 
reluctant  nerves  to  tenseness,  and  he  became  again 
a  creature  who  willed  and  strove.  A  sense  of  some 
imminent,  tremendous  issues  in  which  he  was  con- 
cerned, tantalized  him.  It  was  like  the  far-off  sound 
of  trumpets  in  the  ear  of  the  stricken  soldier  on 
the  field.  He  must  needs  rise  and  obey;  his  whole 
shattered  strength  re-united  itself  at  that  imperious 
sound;  he  dared  not  die.  He  fought  his  way,  half- 
strangled,  through  the  folds  of  that  delicious  enerva- 
tion ;  he  found  his  strength  by  an  effort  that  seemed 
to  rend  him  asunder;  he  felt  a  sudden  scorn  of  rest- 
fulness.  And  then,  once  more,  he  saw  a  blue  patch 
of  sky  grow  into  distinctness,  and  heard  the  drip- 
drop  of  water  from  a  tap. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW   355 

He  woke  half- weeping  over  his  deliverance. 

These  ebbings  to  and  fro  of  consciousness  con- 
tinued for  a  long  time;  at  last  there  came  a  brief 
period  of  entire  clearness  of  vision. 

It  was  midnight.  A  shaded  lamp  stood  upon  the 
floor,  casting  oblique  shadows.  A  woman  with  a 
kind,  firm  face  bent  over  him  and  felt  his  pulse.  His 
eye  rapidly  scanned  the  scene :  the  straight,  narrow 
bed;  the  bare,  stone-coloured  walls;  the  dim  light; 
the  white-dressed  woman  stooping  over  him;  and  he 
realized  he  was  in  hospital. 

"Have  I  been  ill?"  he  whispered. 

"Yes,  but  you  are  better  now,"  she  answered. 

"Am  I  going  to  die  ?" 

The  woman  did  not  answer. 

She  left  his  room  for  a  moment,  returning  with 
the  doctor.  In  that  brief  interval  he  had  realized 
his  condition.  He  had  realized  also  that  in  a  way 
the  final  choice  between  death  and  life  rested  with 
himself.  "Man  dieth  not  wholly,  but  by  the  death 
of  the  will,"  he  thought;  "therefore,  God  gives  me 
the  choice." 

Instantly  he  made  his  choice :  he  would  live.  He 
must  needs  summon  all  his  energies  in  the  effort  to 
live.  The  most  primal  of  all  instincts,  this  effort 
to  live,  reasserted  itself  in  him.  A  great  horror  of 
physical  annihilation  swept  over  him.  He  was  con- 
scious of  powers  and  faculties  which  called  for  ex- 
pression in  the  world  of  men,  of  work  not  done,  of 
work  that  waited  to  be  done.  The  words  of  the 


356      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

ancient  king  of  Jerusalem  leapt  to  his  lips:  "For 
Sheol  cannot  praise  Thee,  death  cannot  celebrate 
Thee;  they  that  go  down  into  the  pit  cannot  hope 
for  Thy  truth.  The  living,  the  living,  he  shall  praise 
Thee,  as  I  do  this  day."  He  clung  to  life,  as  a  man 
climbing  out  of  some  black  chasm  clings  to  every 
small  projection  in  the  precipice  that  is  crowned 
with  the  upper  day.  In  that  strip  of  blue  day, 
far  above  him,  familiar  faces  shone  radiant; 
from  that  bright  summit  voices  of  encouragement 
saluted  him ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  God,  ap- 
proving his  decision,  put  a  strong  arm  around 
him  and  helped  him  upward.  He  smiled  for 

joy- 
Again  and  again  he  was  swept  back  toward  the 
abyss,  but  he  never  lost  the  vision  of  that  shining 
summit. 

As  he  grew  stronger,  his  passion  for  the  visible 
human  world  grew  more  intense,  till  it  was  almost 
painful.  He  found  food  for  wonder  in  the  com- 
monest features  of  human  life.  The  sound  of 
wheels  and  footsteps  on  the  street  set  him  thinking 
of  the  mystery  of  locomotion.  To  move,  to  walk — 
by  a  mute  signal  of  the  will  to  set  all  this  involved 
machinery  of  the  body  travelling  hither  and  thither, 
— it  seemed  a  miracle  indeed  to  him,  who  lay  there 
so  inert  and  impotent.  He  fancied  that  if  he  ever 
walked  again,  he  would  count  each  step  a  special 
revelation  of  God's  grace,  and  thank  Him  for  it; 
and  he  blamed  himself  that  he  had  been  unthankful 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  357 

for  the  precious  gift  of  physical  activity  in  the  days 
of  health. 

He  watched  with  painful  eagerness  for  each  suc- 
ceeding daybreak.  Night  was  his  Gethsemane; 
each  night  seemed  insurmountable,  hostile,  malev- 
olent; a  road  of  agonies.  But,  oh,  the  exquisite 
relief  when  the  cold,  blue  light  of  day  began  to  fill 
the  room.  It  was  as  though  a  foe  had  departed,  a 
friend  had  come.  And  how  wonderful  seemed  the 
mere  shining  of  the  sun!  Outside  the  window  a 
great  elm  rose,  and  he  watched,  like  an  eager  child, 
for  the  moment  when  the  first  ray  of  sunrise  smote 
it.  When  the  blue  dawn-light  became  suffused  with 
soft  gray,  he  knew  the  moment  near ;  when,  at  last, 
the  first  long  golden  spear  of  splendour  pierced  the 
bosom  of  the  tree,  and  made  each  leaf  a  green,  quiv- 
ering flame,  he  could  have  clapped  his  hands;  and 
had  a  company  of  angels  moved  amid  the  foliage, 
each  brow  aureoled  with  light,  it  had  not  seemed  a 
greater  miracle.  When  the  day  had  thus  come,  he 
usually  fell  asleep,  for  then  only  did  he  feel  content 
and  safe. 

He  had  gone  back  to  childhood.  Like  a  child  he 
had  become  dependent  upon  others  for  all  the  offices 
of  life.  It  seemed  a  strange  thing  at  first  thus  to  be 
girded  by  others  whom  he  knew  not,  but  he  soon 
grew  reconciled  to  it.  He  even  found  a  certain 
comfort  in  his  dependence.  Through  it  he  came  to 
realize  a  more  composed  faith  in  God.  For  if  these 
men  and  women,  who  knew  him  only  as  a  patient, 


358      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

were  so  kind;  if  their  skill  and  vigilance  were  al- 
ways at  his  call;  if  he  could  learn  to  lean  on  them 
with  such  reposeful  confidence;  how  much  more 
might  he  lean  on  God,  who  loves  to  bear  the  human 
burden  ? 

And,  in  those  hours,  there  came  to  him  also  a 
new  and  special  sense  of  sympathy  with  all  suffer- 
ing. He  had  never  before  endured  the  violence  of 
pain;  he  had  never  had  any  vivid  sense  of  the  tre- 
mendous part  which  pain  plays  in  the  lives  of  men. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  realized  the  terrible  sig- 
nificance of  the  Apostolic  word,  "The  whole  cre- 
ation travaileth  together  in  pain."  The  thought 
overwhelmed  him.  Yet  its  final  effect  was  not  dis- 
may; it  was  a  sense  of  comradeship  with  all  the 
myriad  lives  that  suffered.  He  had  been  made  free 
of  the  City  of  Anguish.  He  had  acquired  citizen- 
ship with  the  children  of  pain  and  those  who  lay 
in  the  shadow  of  death.  Henceforth  he  must  prove 
his  citizenship  by  new  sympathy;  himself  initiated 
into  the  brotherhood  of  pain,  he  must  prove  his 
brotherhood  in  service.  So  vivid  was  his  sense  of 
this  new  duty  that  he  questioned  if  any  one  could 
have  a  real  sense  of  sympathy  with  suffering  who 
had  not  himself  suffered;  and,  perhaps,  the  clearest 
proof  that  there  is  a  ministry  in  pain  was  this  change 
of  temper  which  pain  had  wrought  in  him. 

How  often  had  he  heard  of  this  or  that  man  who 
had  vanished  behind  the  gates  of  suffering;  and  had 
heard  without  emotion,  because  his  own  vision  could 


THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  SHADOW  359 

not  pass  those  gates.  How  often  had  he  passed  be- 
neath the  walls  of  a  hospital,  on  joyous  feet,  with 
scarce  a  glance  at  the  high  windows;  indeed,  with- 
out recollection  of  what  the  place  was  and  of  all  its 
poignant  significance.  But  this  could  never  happen 
again.  Henceforth  and  always  when  he  passed  a 
hospital  it  would  be  on  tiptoe  and  with  bared  head; 
it  would  be  with  a  gush  of  silent  prayer  for  all  who 
suffered,  and  with  a  thrill  of  reverence  for  those 
who  served  within  those  walls;  it  would  be  with  the 
awe  of  a  disciple  revisiting  the  hill  of  Calvary  and 
meditating  on  the  Cross.  And  so  there  came  to  him 
something  more  than  an  enlarged  experience;  there 
came  to  him  a  fuller  sense  of  the  beauty  and  sanctity 
that  dwelt  in  human  life;  looking  into  the  tomb 
where  corruption  lay,  he  had  found  a  garden  of 
lilies,  had  seen  a  vision  of  angels,  had  received  new 
assurance  of  something  immortal  that  stirred  be- 
neath the  muddy  vesture  of  mortality. 


XXIV 
PERFECT  LOVE 

"iy     JTARGARET!" 

\/l         It  was  a  Sabbath  morning,  and  the 
•A-  v  J.  air  was  fun  of  the  sound  of  bells  that 
rang  for  worship. 

"Margaret!" 

Gaunt  lay  very  still,  and  over  him  bent  his  wife, 
Her  face  was  worn  with  anxious  watchings  and 
waitings,  but  it  still  retained  its  aspect  of  sweet 
composure.  And  it  seemed  to  Gaunt  that  it  had 
become  younger;  it  wore  the  delicate  colours  of 
girlhood,  in  spite  of  new  lines  traced  upon  the  brow, 
and  a  touch  of  silver  in  the  heavy  braids  of  brown 
hair. 

She  stooped  and  kissed  him,  and  each  felt  the  kiss 
to  be  the  seal  of  a  new  union. 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  then  he  spoke 
in  a  low  voice. 

"I  have  a  confession  to  make,"  he  said.  "In  these 
long,  long  hours  of  thought  it  has  come  to  me 
that " 

"Hush,"  she  said,  laying  her  fingers  on  his  lips, 
"I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  Let  me  make 
my  confession  first" 

"You  can  have  none  to  make." 
360 


PERFECT    LCKVE  361 

"Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile,  "I  have  a  very 
serious  confession.  It  is  that  I  have  sometimes 
grudged  you  to  your  work.  I  know  that  you  have 
not  loved  me  less  for  it,  but  it  has  seemed  to  me  some- 
times that  you  have  not  leaned  so  much  on  me  as  in 
the  other  days.  And  it  was  so  sweet  to  be  leaned 
on,  to  bear  the  burden,  sharing  it  with  no  one.  Oh, 
I  know,  dear,  it  all  sounds  so  little,  but  sometimes 
I  have  been  jealous  of  your  work." 

"And  now?"  he  said. 

"Now  I  know  better.  I  am  proud  to  give  you  to 
your  work,  and  to  be  forgotten." 

"Never  that,  Margaret!"  he  whispered.  "Do  you 
really  know  what  I  was  going  to  say  ?  I  was  going 
to  tell  you  that  I  never  loved  you  as  I  love  you  now. 
Come  nearer,  dear  one,  for  you  must  hear  my  con- 
fession after  all.  I  have  let  my  work  absorb  me,  I 
have  let  it  seem  as  if  I  no  longer  leaned  on  you  as  I 
once  did.  But  you  are  more  to  me,  greatly  more, 
than  in  the  other  days.  Dear,  am  I  forgiven?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,"  she  answered. 
"On  that  night  when  they  tried  to  kill  you  I  did  feel 
— wicked.  I  wished  you  had  never  taken  up  the 
work  at  all.  But  in  those  dark  and  dreadful  hours 
I  found  my  consolation,  for  I  came  to  feel  that  it  was 
a  proud  joy  for  each  of  us  to  suffer  in  such  a  cause. 
I  felt  it,  even  when  I  saw  my  days  stretching  out 
before  me  desolate  and  widowed,  and  I  thanked  God 
that  He  had  seen  fit  to  make  me  the  wife  of  a 
martyr. 


362      A    PROPHET    IN   BABYLON 

"There,"  she  added,  "that  is  my  confession.  I 
could  not  be  easy  till  I  had  told  you." 

Her  arms  were  about  his  neck.  The  Sabbath 
bells  rang  outside,  but  sweeter  yet  than  these  bells 
which  proclaimed  "the  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky" 
were  the  bridal  bells  that  rang  in  each  heart.  For 
in  each  heart  love  had  come  to  full  fruition,  for  it  had 
found  the  divine  grace  of  complete  unselfishness. 

It  is  a  worn  truism  that  no  one  knows  how  much 
he  is  loved  till  disaster  overtakes  him,  but  it  is  also 
a  beautiful  tribute  to  human  nature. 

The  news  of  Gaunt's  assassination  aroused  an  out- 
burst of  love  and  sorrow  probably  unprecedented  in 
the  history  of  any  religious  leader  of  modern  times. 
It  was  speedily  apparent  that  evil  had  over-reached 
itself.  It  was  impossible  to  find  a  single  voice  that 
approved  an  outrage  so  dastardly.  Deprecation  of 
the  act,  appreciation  of  Gaunt's  work  and  character, 
were  universal. 

In  the  days  immediately  following  the  outrage, 
there  were  many  efforts  made  to  discover  the  crim- 
inal. These  efforts  were  entirely  vain.  All  that 
ever  came  to  public  knowledge  was  that  the  room 
from  which  the  shot  was  fired  had  been  hired  a  week 
before  the  tragedy  by  a  person  whose  identity  was 
never  known.  It  is  probable  that  Butler  knew  the 
secret,  but  if  so,  he  did  not  divulge  it.  His  own 
indignant  sense  of  justice  would  have  counselled 
retaliation,  but  he  knew  that  this  was  not  Gaunt's 


PERFECT    LOVE  3^3 

spirit.  When  he  was  urged  by  Stonecroft  to  dis- 
close what  he  knew,  he  replied:  "It  would  serve  no 
good  purpose.  It  is  sometimes  wiser  to  endure  a 
wrong  than  to  punish  it." 

From  that  position  he  was  not  to  be  moved. 

The  wound  inflicted  on  Gaunt  was  very  serious. 
The  bullet  intended  for  his  heart  was  deflected  by 
striking  the  silver  Cross  of  Stars  which  he  wore 
upon  his  breast.  This  alone  saved  his  life. 

He  meditated  much  on  this  singular  deliverance 
during  the  slow  days  of  convalescence.  The  more 
he  thought  of  it,  the  more  the  conviction  grew  that 
he  was  a  man  set  apart  and  specially  preserved  for 
a  work  that  waited  to  be  done.  The  many  provi- 
dences of  his  life  knit  themselves  together  into  elo- 
quent coherence;  they  culminated  in  this  crowning 
intervention;  and  they  begot  in  him  a  very  humble 
but  joyous  sense  of  predetermined  destiny.  He  saw 
the  pathway  of  his  life  stretching  onward,  firm  and 
clear;  he  would  henceforth  pursue  it  with  unfluctu- 
ating zeal,  conscious  not  alone  of  his  own  deter- 
mining choice,  but  of  a  strong  divine  propulsion. 
Who  could  prophesy  what  that  path  would  reveal,  to 
what  eminence  of  service  it  would  lead  him?  One 
thing  alone  he  saw  with  an  absolute  distinctness;  it 
was  the  right  path.  He  had  found  the  synonym 
of  all  religion  in  the  law  of  love  and  service.  The 
Church,  corrupted  by  traditionalism,  must  go;  it 
could  not  long  resist  the  disintegration  whose  havoc 
was  already  so  apparent ;  but  its  vital  and  imperish- 


364      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

able  elements  would  reunite;  they  would  assume  a 
nobler  form;  and  this  new  Church  of  the  Future 
would  become  the  universal  Church  of  love  and 
service.  It  would  be  broad  enough  to  include  the 
best  elements  of  all  religions;  it  would  be  the  final 
synthesis  of  all  that  was  good  and  beautiful  in  human 
life.  His  heart  burned  within  him  at  the  vision.  He 
longed  to  be  at  work  again,  and  this  desire  gave 
a  new  dynamic  to  his  energies;  night  and  day  he 
dreamed  now  of  the  new  fields  of  toil  that  awaited 
him,  and  heard  the  Future  calling  him. 

Every  afternoon  his  friends  visited  him,  cheer- 
ing and  humbling  him,  not  alone  by  the  tenderness 
of  their  solicitude,  but  the  tidings  they  bore  of  the 
love  of  multitudes  who  prayed  for  his  recovery. 

One  day,  Palmer  and  Olivia  Jordan  remained 
after  the  other  visitors  had  gone. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,"  said  Palmer,  in  a 
low  voice. 

"I  think  I  can  guess  your  secret,"  said  Gaunt, 
with  a  smile. 

They  knelt  beside  his  bed,  their  hands  clasped. 

"God  bless  you  both,"  said  Gaunt. 

He  was  silent  for  some  moments,  thinking  of  his 
own  married  life,  recalling  its  first  lyric  joy,  and  all 
the  growth  of  steadfast  trust  which  had  accom- 
panied its  course. 

"Count  your  love  God's  best  gift,"  he  said.  "But 
I  know  you  do.  You  will  be  the  better  fitted  to 


PERFECT   LOVE  365 

serve  others  in  the  degree  that  your  own  love  is 
pure  and  deep." 

"That  is  what  we  both  feel,"  said  Olivia. 

He  laid  his  hand  tenderly  upon  the  bowed  head 
of  the  fair  girl,  then  he  drew  her  towards  him,  and 
kissed  her  brow. 

"Your  wedding  bells  shall  ring  me  back  to  life," 
he  said,  gaily. 

Gaunt's  recovery  was  slow,  but  at  last  there  came 
a  blessed  day,  when  the  "shining  summit"  he  had 
seen  in  his  delirious  dreams  was  reached.  Leaning 
upon  his  wife's  arm,  attended  by  Butler  and  Palmer, 
he  passed  out  of  the  hospital,  driving  through  a 
world  of  sunshine  back  to  his  house  in  Washington 
Square.  His  physician  had  urged  him  to  go  to 
the  seaside  or  the  mountains  for  a  few  weeks,  but 
he  was  eager  for  his  own  house,  and  yet  more  eager 
for  his  work. 

"A  man  whose  life  has  been  spared  by  miracle  can 
afford  to  trust  God  to  complete  the  miracle  in  the 
gift  of  daily  strength,"  he  said.  "The  finest  tonic 
for  my  condition  is  the  recovered  power  of  work." 

On  the  night  when  he  came  home  the  house  was 
filled  with  flowers.  Among  them  was  one  emblem 
which  at  once  attracted  his  attention.  It  was  a 
large  Cross  composed  of  red  roses,  with  yellow 
roses  interwoven  in  the  upper  section, — a  Cross  of 
Stars  in  flowers.  It  was  the  gift  of  Dr.  Jordan. 

He  stood  long  before  it.    Then  he  fell  upon  his 


366      A    PROPHET    IN    BABYLON 

knees,  praying  in  simple  words  that  he  might  better 
understand  the  spirit  of  the  Cross,  knowing  not  its 
blood-red  stain  alone,  but  its  starry  joy. 

Those  who  listened  understood  that  this  act  was 
the  rededication  of  Gaunt's  life  to  the  service  of 
humanity. 

Before  the  Cross  they  also  bowed  in  silence :  his 
wife,  Butler,  Palmer,  Mrs.  Holcombe,  Olivia  Jor- 
dan, and  a  few  others  who  represented  various 
branches  of  his  work.  As  Gaunt  finished  praying, 
they,  by  common  instinct,  began  to  sing,  softly, 

"When  I  survey  the  wondrous  Cross." 

They  sang  it  to  its  close. 

Six  weeks  before  it  had  seemed  almost  a  requiem 
— a  hymn  of  martyrdom.  They  had  sung  it  in  that 
hour  when  Gaunt  had  fallen. 

They  sang  it  now  with  triumph.  They  realized 
that  all  the  wisdom  of  the  ages  was  enshrined  in  it. 
Above  all  they  realized  that  this  man,  whose  prayer 
still  lingered  in  their  ears,  had  found  this  wisdom; 
that  in  him  once  more  was  wrought  the  eternal 
miracle  of  the  life  that  grows  by  giving,  gains  by 
losing,  lives  by  dying. 

All  can  understand  the  pain  of  sacrifice;  but  there 
is  a  further  knowledge  when  we  comprehend  its  joy. 

Gaunt  had  found  the  joy. 

THE  END 


BY     W.    J.    DAWSON 


The   Empire   of   Love. 

I2mo,  cloth,  $1.00  net. 

Nothing  from  Dr.  Dawson's  pen  surpasses  this  mod- 
erate sized  volume.  He  tells  the  striking  qualities  of 
Jesus'  character  and  its  effect  on  those  who  came  or  now 
come  under  its  spell.  The  pages  seem  like  magnets  draw- 
ing you  closer  to  the  heart  of  the  Master.  It  is  a  book  of 
power,  rare,  beautiful  and  irresistible. 

Makers  of  Modern  English 

3  vols.,  leather,  boxed,  per  set,  $6.00  net. 
Makers  of  English  Poetry.    Bvo,  cloth,  gilt 
top,  $1.50  net. 

Makers  of  English  Prose.  8vo,  cloth,  gilt 
top,  $130  net. 

Makers  of  English  Fiction.  $d  edition,  ismo, 
cloth,  gilt  top,  $1.30  net. 

"Mr.  Dawson  knows  his  subject  thoroughly.  He  is  a 
literary  man  of  impressionable  mind  and  acute  judgment . 
His  style  is  a  perpetual  delightfor  clearness, variety, force 
and  rhythm.  He  is  an  informal  and  delightful  critic  and 
his  book  is  the  work  of  a  real  critic  and  a  master  of  style ; 
high  praise,  but  deserved  we  believe."— M  Y.  Evening  Sun. 

The  Forgotten  Secret.  Art  binding,  50 
cents  net. 

"Sir  Oliver  Lodge  recently  declared  prayer  to  be  the 
forgotten  secret  of  the  church.  This  then  is  '  The  For- 
gotten Secret '  treated  and  discussed  in  a  practical  and 
helpful  manner." — Christian  Observer. 

The  Evangelistic  Note.  3 d  edition.  $1.25  net. 
"One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  stirring  of  recent 
books.  It  is  really  the  story  of  a  great  crisis  in  the  life  of 
a  great  preacher.  The  book  is  epoch-making  in  character." 
—  The  Watchman. 

The  Reproach  of  Christ.  With  an  Intro- 
duction by  Newell  Dwight  Hillis.  Cloth, 
$1.00  net. 

"Marked by  a  distinctive  literary  quality,  combined  with 
irnest  evangelical  zeal,  they  are  models  of  homiletic 


earnest 
construction.' 


-Church  Economist. 


FLEMING  H.  REVELL  COMPANY 

Publishers 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OP  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $t.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


iViAY    10  1946 


LD  21-100TO-12, '43  (8796s) 


